Morsarch:
I see small, gentle, winged creatures.
Conscious:
Butterflies, they are called. Butterflies.
Morsarch:
I see small, gentle, winged creatures.
Black of colour.
Conscious:
Black Butterflies.
Morsarch:
Wings, get smaller. Body gets thicker.
I see Flies. I sense rotting.
Death is near. Death is good.
Conscious:
Is Death good?
Morsarch:
No, no, no. Perchance. Yes.
Maybe? Fly, fly, fly hence! Farewell.
Conscious:
I greet thee.
Morsarch:
No, I bode thee farewell.
Conscious:
Dost thou wish me to leave forever,
and thus want our relation to see closure.
Morsarch:
No, no, no. Perchance. No.
Canst thou love?
Conscious:
Perchance. Dost thou demand so?
Morsarch:
Perchance. Naught I know of love.
Can one demand the unknown?
Conscious:
Perchance.
Morsarch:
I wonder if the rotting of the flesh affects the rotting of the mind.
Woo't outside world affect the inner?
Conscious:
Perchance.
Morsarch:
Death is closure.
Closure opens life unaffected.
Death is good.
