It has been a pain of sorts to stand outside the tank in front of the glass, and watch you sell out every last drop of your god given beauty. Once this desire entered your soul to spark abandon, a bit each day I saw you melt into a form that could only be described as gollum-like - protector of trinkets, small and meek. The provisioning of the ego is a nasty business, because it is never quite done. You’d sear the very flesh from your arm and hand it to the other bottom feeders in an attempted exchange for misguided love. Insecurity is an ant farm you may never liberate, despite our past efforts. You would bathe in dirt forever, so long as the next corner appeared to be an escape.
Do not call upon me when the sun goes down. Do not try and reach me, even if the sky bleeds red. I gave you the precious name, and you have used it to deceive. I must turn my back and journey on, to the true exit.