please come in. i won’t bite, simply whet my appetite with whatever foods you may bring from the dark winter garden of night.
what’s that smell? is it fever? spreading deeper? butter-hot, red as the flame-drips that bred the black sin in the hearts of believers.
you’ll find my crown on the head of a creature and my name on the lips of the dead i am speaking of dread and hunger do you know hunger? precisely. it needs to be fed.
please begin. i won’t interrupt. drink wine from my cup and eat from my table. perhaps you are able to stomach what once was corrupt.
it has a taste: misbehavior. no saviors here, just fare to be swallowed, bones to be hollowed; for rudeness yields exquisite flavors.
you’ll find my crown on the head of a creature and my name on the lips of the dead i am speaking of dread and hunger do you know hunger? precisely. it needs to be fed.