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/ the scrawl is different - not the usual round, flourished lettering, rather jagged, almost illegible / What lay nestled in the heart of man? What lay in the stomach? The intestines? The spleen? Answers only lead to more questions. A horse that seeks water but finds nothing but sand. More questions, more confusion. Lingering doubts to breed paranoia, paralyzed as we are in our trepidation, as every urge screams for us to R U N Against all other desires, caution to the wind - abandon all thought, ye who tremble here. What makes a man most? The blood in his veins? The beating heart in his chest? The grasping hands, clutching with greedy fervor - to anything, to everything, to... nothing. The dark thoughts that flicker at the edges of his consciousness - the ones that tell one to hurt, to destroy, to humiliate - oh, the dark thoughts. How long can one supress them? Like air buried in the depths of water, rising, rising. Bubbling. Ascending. And exploding as they breach the surface. What distinguishes us from the animals... the savage creatures who roam the world - what distinguishes us from them? Nothing. We are all but passengers of our baser instincts. Vessels for the dark, intangible beasts that lurk in the shadows. When one tells you to run... you should probably R U N / a signature scratched deep in the parchment, almost through the fibers entirely - / - EPCH | |