(a flame with a knife to its throat)
the primrose path lead to echoing halls of silver-dipped heaven and honey-soaked reveries – so why is it that i am surrounded by the broken pieces of doom and gloom, the wretched stone hearts of dilapidated souls and lips that were never kissed.
(the knife): your sins are drenched in empty souls, darling. they're hungry, they are bleeding. bruised and battered, don't you think your efforts were fleeting? they will feed on you and finally you will be deemed useful.
(the flame): to think i could ever be used—
(the knife): but you have been drowning in your sins, darling, an ocean of your mistakes. to drain the tub we must feed you to the moon. the desert is beautiful when you open your eyes. your blood and skin will make the moon beautiful.
(the flame): it will set the moon on fire.
(the knife): darling, then you made a star. how useful that is. maybe then you can make the world burn. i can help you.
(the flame, melting the knife): i could care less about you scraps of old gods, godforsaken weapons. you cannot take me to the moon and drain me of myself. you can't kill me.
