Oh wretched, delicate creature, how long have you lived in your castle made of stone? Your skin is bloodless, your claws are long. You are married to darkness, but you have never forgotten the sun. Where is your family? The bones are your friends now, for you are the teller of untold tales, the keeper of the unkept. Your lovers may offer you their throat, but still your jaw locks and your heart breaks. Nothing ever feels like it is yours to take. How long have you suffered? How long have you carried the weight of rotting bones as they long to rest in dawn’s embrace? I can see that you are tired, but still you sing songs in the crypts of your ancestors, in the absence of all life. You were born dead, but you fight the darkest night. You are strange, dear creature. And you can learn to love your loneliness—but you must love your madness, too. And know one day that the light shall hold you again, releasing the pain as ash in the wind.