Doch.................

It strikes me, suddenly, a stem cell of surprise. So will you play, new friend or stick to the demise that has been scripted then? I may regret to say I will not need the helping hand you do unfold there, on the public square for me it's only pride that guides me now, a silly gallery of puppets on a string, perhaps they would at that, believe how I could be the spirit of the catacomb, each side a bat's transparence of a wing without the promise of an afterlife's reprieve. Yes, it is I who sucks the marrow of the beast, until the echo of its hollowness cries out. But will you come to me and hold my little hand I'm only little, just an image, but not stout.