Time came and went. Tongues cut and twisted up in a million knots. Riven limbs die off and rot when severed from the trunk. This vessel impuissant, can no longer withstand. I have nothing more to offer up. Nothing more than these hands hold dear. The harbinger of death is near and though I've kept him long at bay, he has been keeping count of foolery in my decisions. There is nothing left here to praise. A monument of filth and avarice. Behold, cultured forbearance of the truth, and in my hand a hangman's noose. I've become the scythe and the reaper, and I will rip what has been sown. You know spoils of deceit; your death will be my holiday.