"Life here will begin out there". I didn't write these words, on the velum pages made from my own skin, with ink made of burnt bones of ancient monsters, under the light of candles burning green. In fact, I, nor my parents nor my child and wife, exist at all, as the devils I call forth from the hells unlike this one, and monsters summoned from further still, gleefully tell me. We all are but a backstory to a play yet unwritten, existing as a possibility among an infinity of its peers. They offer me this knowledge freely, gladly, safe in the knowledge that this is not happening. They desire that I despair, break and blaspheme, that I utter oaths unbreakable even if they are, in fact, unspoken, sell myself and all to follow me to their masters for the surety of becoming, and in doing so transform myself into a hidden poison at the heart of my future mistress.