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Feel the indomitable power of spirit charging your blood and raising your consciousness. It's a magic unbeaten. It's a corrupt spell that changes happiness.

My displays are fanatic; my soul is starving.

I speak of things only my comrades may understand, built as they are into the hypersensitive character.

The knife wounds continually reopen from the inside in the lightless corridor but nothing bleeds forth. All the blood has already been spilled upon countless papers. They flutter uncontrollably, stiff and caked in rouge. Their sight disturbs me.

The creased papers keep me awake.

Day after day passes, but the curse simply will not lift.
My healing magic is depleted.