Rose out the Spencer of the market and 'let all the poisons in the mud hatch out'. For there remain no litters anymore, there remain no Kings tonight and only the blossom of this young catastrophe can salvage the knight's shine tonight. There are then only rumours of unknown tragedies which will pass on from this ear to the next eon, and whatsoever is of a sentient cast will find in itself the remains of my bones. 

In my bones are etched then the tales of unknown heroes, who are murderers and villains and consumers of all innocese. They are in all honesty, the bearers of humanity upon whose pillars shall rest the last generation of humankind and when the mother of humanity shall give birth no more it is then those tales will speak of us to eyes unknown.