Based on The Fool's offside comment when in conversation with Gonerill and her father Lear: "Now thou art an 0 without a figure. I am better than thou art now; I am a fool; thou art nothing." {190} I do not own any shakespearian terminology and apologies in advance for any error on my part. Trigger Warning: mild hints at eating disorder. Shakey's the the genius, not me!

Pardon, if 't be true thyself am being too f'rward.

But thyself shall englut mine own corse if 't be true thee alloweth't to beest so.

Lest thyself wasteth hence, thyself did bid thee thine final adieu.

What shall cometh to passeth, this finale is an accumulation of events which thee setteth in current course of motion.

Might I feeleth unrequit'd rage towards thy visage, thy family and all yond thee hold true.

To beest perfectly candid, thy pity thee. And thy roof.

Ye shouldst all knoweth yond I doth not hold grudges meekly 'r without much contemptment.

All I heareth from words escaping thy rough lips is the repetitive tone of "what thinkest thou on`t?"

Mine own response is simplest, f'r I has't hadst much time to bethink, I shall heave the gorge on all thy livings, thee naughty piece of indecent human filth!

Obviously I has't pent up unrequit'd indignation concerning those in mine own opposition.

Yond is a tale f'r a time further.

Thyself dreameth of p'rcelain skin and ton'd bones but all thyself taketh in returneth from mine own tireless eff'rts is the gift of rotten teeth and chary glances.

Tis't not of this w'rld to wisheth f'r what one sees.

Thee inf'rm, yond't is a pure crime to starve in the sight of the public, and yet, thee doth not attempteth to stand ho mine own owneth actions.

I holdeth thine own: not declaring yond t's up to thee because ideal this is the way thyself wisheth to beest. Thee didst has't a role of thy owneth to fulfil. I beseech, do thine own bidding! Or else, only an exsufflicate space remains. A space anon position'd in thine owneth being.

I doth lament to f'retell with the upmost sinc'rity yond thine breath beest not thine lasteth as mine own owneth voice betrays me in tongue twist'd tails of the reality thyself has't since f'rth cometh to greeteth.

Mine own corse is m'rely a vessel, hollow'd out f'r all to witness.

Thyself am exsufflicate, thyself am pure, thyself am p'rfect.

Mine own calling beckons into the darkness, I followeth.

Until the stars aline once m're, this is't.

Thus ends I