It was finished. The prophecy was completed. After many moons of work, I had constructed it. I thought when I died I would go to Starclan, and rest. But I didn't, I labored long and hard to put into words what the stars at told me. And it was done.
I was curled beneath an apple tree. It towered over me, branches stretched towards the sky. The sky that told the stories of the warriors that would come before me, warriors that would one day walk with us, here in Starclan.
An apple fell, from the tree, onto my head. I heard of a twoleg man, his name Isaac Newton. An apple fell on his head and gave him a stroke of genius. But all the little FUCKER did to me was give me FUCKING amnesia. Now I can't remember the FUCKING prophecy and we're all going to FUCKING die. Again.