I've got this long shadow, this bitter memory, long of fang and hackles risen I stand in wrack and ruin lost in a duel with myself. It's not elegant, it's sorrowful and dirty, broken mirrors and the flash of fangs. Most days I hate myself, though I suppose that's the price you pay for being your own god. When will and nature cross swords well...
Guess that's all. Call me Cerul.