Look at me. This is who I am. My eyes are a devil's workshop. Stare me in the hand. Maybe you'll finally see how right I was all along. This is not treatable. This is not a cry for help, or mercy. This is just desperation to be understood. My whole life hurts me; there's nothing it won't touch, and nothing it touches survives. I'm weary and at my wit's end. Stare me in the hand, and maybe you'll find a bit of me. Prester Bane tells me to look beautiful, but all I see is ugly; he has no face, and this evil in my hand has no name. Listen for a while, and you just might hear him beckoning; don't listen too long, or you'll hear too much.