this is no desolation of spirit but rather an anchor cast out by a mind adrift. what succor do i find beside this constant, dark companion? it is as if the bad angels have bells on their shoes when the enter the room; my ears to prick to hear their pitter-patter. "div, div, div," they whisper & i guess i can't help but talk to them about the onus of the crown. i am not really so melancholy as all that. i could talk maybe about how joaquin phoenix in the village is the ideal paladin. i could talk about that! i won't though. i won't talk about much other than to hear the sound of my own voice. or to see the gleam of my own knife. i ramble, i ramble on, i bramble, i thorn.