A scream is not so loud in black ink, no matter how white the card, no matter how much pain he wills into the words. Years he counts in pocket change, hell he illustrates in dance. He thought torment of the flesh was the worst he could endure. He knows better now.
This magic is cold, and hungry, and weighs on what is left of him. A sacrifice should not feel regret, but he does; and shame, always shame. But none of them care as they slip the dime in and wait. His predictions are meaningless, as his death will be.
