Dear Orenda,
You subvert me at every twist of your head. Your dreamers lie prone in wait for salvation while the gusts beneath my wings torture their cheating hearts. The sheen of the scales on my back match the notches on their grimy tongues.
Your ones walked through that colorless city spouting hopes and fears, only to be twisted into discs at my circle. The red spots of before-life deeds clot their eyes before my shades of grey.
My glossy eyes offer them no grace as they dance ————-with flames of endless shiny bolgia.
Their skin crackles as I rule the fantasy which you have set before me. Hollows where unchecked fluidity struck pyrrhonism into damnation. And so your fools wail eternally for trust in mass-produced beauty.
—Kalopsia in aciremA
