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Hello again, my trenchant Dante. You have stepped in and out of sharp-edged worlds, hewn gods into blunt fractions, twinned yourself with powers whose names cannot even be held in the language of little gray cells. You think yourself very high up on the pyramid of contumely. If you only knew how high that pyramid goes. Higher than I knew when my radiant killer unsung me from biological squalor, or when I witnessed a royal secret turn death into a chrysalis. Higher than I described in my journals, or told to our mutual three-eyed friend. Higher than even I, sailor upon the Sea of Screams that I am, can yet see. Perhaps I will tell you about them. You are right to ask why I would do so. Very good, dear squanderer, your intentions have grown sharp as thrallteeth. You see, they know. What you are, what you were, what you will become. They know. What lean tithes you are to them. Soft whetstones make for dull blades. This I define as the truth and tension of the rope: to bind, one must apply force at both ends. I think perhaps I will tell you after all.