I run my hand over the wooden surface, and feel a prick. Ecstasy. The blood begins to seep out of me. Troublesome heat, passion, the black splinter in my finger cools. There is peace in death, a Yang within the Yin. As my waking mind searched out the mysteries, the sarcophagus sent me dreams. Reaction. My hand draws back, and I see the sliver sinking into my flesh.
I know with a certainty I cannot explain, that the dreams are true, that I will, I must, die, but I cannot express to you the absolute peace this dreadful assurance brings.
Tale Told 