It's not beautiful anymore. It's unbeautiful. It's un, un, un, un, un.
She keeps telling me it's my fault. She's dead and it's all my fault. Shantih, shantih, shantih. No. There is no peace. There is no peace.
The corpses are singing. It's all wrong. Like a choir of crows.
"Behold the ruined beauty
As ashes fall like snow.
Praise be to the end
And He Who Made It So."
No. I don't want to praise him. He is wrong, he is wrong, he is wrong, he is un. He's on the monitor again. Looking at me. Looking at my soul. My sins. The shards of my mother. She's still calling out to me. Telling me it's my fault and it is. It's my fault she's dead. But I can't go to him. Anything but him. Shantih, shantih, shantih. The corpses won't stop singing and he won't stop whispering and my mother won't SHUT THE FUCK UP. Shantih, shantih, shantih. I can't take it anymore. It's too much, too loud. There's one window they can't stop my breaking through.