It is not insane to want skooma; to desire it from dusk till dawn, to smoke in glee when all is well, and to wither in the shakes and the madness when it is gone. It is not insane to slump half-naked in the streets, clad in beggar cloth, barking on all fours like a mad dog at the sickly purple specters amongst me. None of this is insane, for skooma is absurd and a true connoisseur of the mystic sugars revels in that difference. To be insane is to be normal, and to be absurd is to be brave.
O, Falkreath, how those majestic forests inspire me so! The howls of bloodied wolves scurrying along the screeches of witches forsworn, beckoning me evermore. O, Falkreath—necropolis of the new age—thou shall act as my muse and the skooma, my fuel. Hail Mannimarco! I have devoured his text and mastered his craft, though the watchful eye of the College never strays far. Hark! Do not fear me, Falkreath, and do not spite me. The King of Worms shall soon be crowned as sure as the dead shall rise. No one touches the skooma! Serenity lost to the lucid…