XII. That was my kin, there. Hell, it looks like me. If only it was still alive. Substantial, material, vibrant, real. You bastard. I resent you. Do you know that? How could I not? Do you think I like living like this?
Living and dying and living and dying and living and dying again.
Never remembering, or perhaps only recognizing that the same thing is happening over and over again, and never sure that it is a circle. And this is all about you who can toss me aside at any moment, without the slightest justification.
Poof.
There I go.
You bet I resent you.
Killer.