Whimsical tales of the unforeseen, to sit and whimper would be foolishness. I talk in words of ancient monotone, my eyes and breathe are sorrow toned. I love the whispers of men who scream, the frantic thoughts of a bright lights gleam. I believe in Dagon who's voice is ever present, while my eyes bleed, thick and effervescent. I bite down with a glorious sound, thunderous and moist sounding. The arch-bishop tastes just as sweet as he preaches to the false god he beseeches of. What of his poor ignorance? I do not believe I could speak on such a topic, I know of the true god of this land, I see They every day! I know that Dagon will consume us all and what problem I may have had before I began to believe is forever cast to the eldritch wind with my love for this sacred essence that kisses my mind. I have felt every bit of Dagon's benevolent and beautifully above time form caress my infinitely disgusting and small skull. If I am not to love my Dagon then I am to fall with the rest of the nonbelievers. That will be my fate if need be.
