now you've had your flash, boy
Destitute; colored crystalline corruption of crobid corpses; procedural behavior crying out in maddened, agonized heartbeats of faith and tender; the circle completes, completes, completes, and is replete with excess information; the perfect exarch has no holes.
Let me help you. Let me help.
By screams, you achieve nothing. By commands, you achieve less.
What you think you are is confidence, is inconceivably affluent human goodwill upon fate.
What you think you are is wonderful, but what I know I am is worse.
I would know him in death, at the end of the world.
But would you? Would you truly?