Install Steam
login
|
language
简体中文 (Simplified Chinese)
繁體中文 (Traditional Chinese)
日本語 (Japanese)
한국어 (Korean)
ไทย (Thai)
Български (Bulgarian)
Čeština (Czech)
Dansk (Danish)
Deutsch (German)
Español - España (Spanish - Spain)
Español - Latinoamérica (Spanish - Latin America)
Ελληνικά (Greek)
Français (French)
Italiano (Italian)
Bahasa Indonesia (Indonesian)
Magyar (Hungarian)
Nederlands (Dutch)
Norsk (Norwegian)
Polski (Polish)
Português (Portuguese - Portugal)
Português - Brasil (Portuguese - Brazil)
Română (Romanian)
Русский (Russian)
Suomi (Finnish)
Svenska (Swedish)
Türkçe (Turkish)
Tiếng Việt (Vietnamese)
Українська (Ukrainian)
Report a translation problem
⠄⠄⢸⣇⠻⣿⣿⣿⣧⣀⢀⣠⡌⢻⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⠿⠿⠿⣿⣿
⠄⢀⢸⣿⣷⣤⣤⣤⣬⣙⣛⢿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⡿⣿⣿⡍⠄⠄⢀⣤⣄⠉⠋⣰
⠄⣼⣖⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⢿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⢇⣿⣿⡷⠶⠶⢿⣿⣿⠇⢀⣤
⠘⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣽⣿⣿⣿⡇⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣷⣶⣥⣴
⢀⠈⢿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿
⢸⣿⣦⣌⣛⣻⣿⣿⣧⠙⠛⠛⡭⠅⠒⠦⠭⣭⡻⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿
⠘⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⡆⠄⠄⠄⠄⠄⠄⠄⠄⠹⠈⢋⣽⣿⣿⣿⣿⣵
⠄⠘⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⠄⣴⣿⣶⣄⠄⣴⣶⠄⢀⣾⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿
⠄⠄⠈⠻⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⡄⢻⣿⣿⣿⠄⣿⣿⡀⣾⣿⣿⣿⣿⣛⠛
⠄⠄⠄⠄⠈⠛⢿⣿⣿⣿⠁⠞⢿⣿⣿⡄⢿⣿⡇⣸⣿⣿⠿⠛⠁
⠄⠄⠄⠄⠄⠄ ⠉⠻⣿⣿⣾⣦⡙⠻⣷⣾⣿⠃⠿⠋⠁
Until I have become one with her profane scent, betwixt the point of man and mould, a sort of... feacal fungus given thought and limited ambulation, destined only for pain of the nostril, unto which gases sour and sharp might stain and singe, the acidic breath of the coin rimmed dragon, suffused the air of my soul, the admixture any alchemist would most surely divine as the elixr immortality might be sought from. And it is in that dastardly immortality, of the arsedly flatulence, where I might find truthfully, and finally, the greatest pleasure of living conciousness and being.
I will become a god. Where true brilliance might be heard, and I shall translate this message to the underlings beneath us, the peons who denigrated my plans, and called them unseemly and grotesque. And I shall laugh, as I compose epics and fables, of her farts.
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⣀⣄⡀⠀⠀⠀⠀⢀⣀⣀⣤⣄⣀⡀
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⢸⣿⣿⣷⠀⠀⠀⠀⠛⠛⣿⣿⣿⡛⠿⠷
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠘⠿⠿⠋⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⣿⣿⣿⠇
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠈⠉⠁
⠀⠀⠀⠀⣿⣷⣄⠀⢶⣶⣷⣶⣶⣤⣀
⠀⠀⠀⠀⣿⣿⣿⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠈⠙⠻⠗
⠀⠀⠀⣰⣿⣿⣿⠀⠀⠀⠀⢀⣀⣠⣤⣴⣶⡄
⠀⣠⣾⣿⣿⣿⣥⣶⣶⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⠿⠿⠛⠃
⢰⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⡄
⢸⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⡁
⠈⢿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⠁
⠀⠀⠛⢿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⡿⠟
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠉⠉⠉