"You must talk about what you think." Said he who is, but is not. The one who writes what he wishes and decides the order of the cosmos and our world. He who decides if we will live in a simple, natural life. With a career, maybe find a pretty lass and start a family. Or live in dark hell with fires of lemonjuice, scorching the lifeless, depressing animals that are so called "people" while raw salmon rains heavily on our unrational heads.
This being is no God, no deadra. No, It is not from our world or beyond it. It is something that is not a part of our being at all, but he is everything of ours. Before I learned that this being existed I lived a simple, uninportant life. I think I was a farmer, or maybe a multi-raced, prophicized hero destined to save the land from burning devestation with the help of a semi-telepathic sea monkey, but I'm pretty sure it was a farmer. I had a daughter, or maybe it was a giant, air breathing, goldfish sent from the gods, their thanks for all the relaxing massages I gave to their wives and swordfishes. It took weeks getting the slime of my hands, the swordfish were clean though.
Now I am forced in an imaginary prison by this mighty but merciless being to speak everything that I think for even a second. Ruby breast-lantern oil. See? I have to give up my unreal, psychological privacy for some for the desires of some magical fairy-thing that looks oddly like an İmperial youth. Albiet a hideous and acne infested one. It was most likely just a form It took to drive me even further to insanity, as I am already Giant mudcrab deep into insanities cruel but moisturized hands. Not the random normal-giant sized mudcrabs, but the post-apocolyptic Giant Mutant mudcrabs. Those our the worst let me tell you. It all started with my ex-pet rodent Bernie suggesting to me...Wait, that didnt go like that. Oh well, I guess I wont be telling an impressively idiotic, bleak tale full of romance and betrayel. Though I heard their was a play in the Imperial theatre named Whylight that is equally idiotic and moronic that you can entertain yourselves with.
Now I am being told by my mighty creator that now resembles a blowfish allergic to leafwater and bears, that I must stop for now and eat my dinner. For I need energy to continue speaking my hugely intelligent and beautifully crafted thoughts that make men squirm and women bleed from their undergarments. Aqua black rosebuds bony cousin.
By the Gods I hate this.