Twas 1689, thy sun wast gazing over the horizon. footsteps hath heard throughout thy village. Opening mine eyes, Looking ’round; I seeth mine own cubiculo in a dim lighting. groaning, i hopeth out of sleep chamber and receiveth eft to wend to the final ritual. rushing downstairs i maketh a plateth of mine own finest potato’s and carrots; t wast delicious. grabbing mine own bible and crosseth i slump out of mine own house, grinning at the idea yond this ritual couldst decideth mine own fate. heart pounding, adrenaline, feareth, and most of all, desire, all resid’d inside of mine own corse, scaring me straight. Timeth did fly to the tall, dark, skinny building, as didst i. Breathing heavily; shaking uncontrollably, i hath walked in to the dim, candle did light cubiculo. Mine own memb’rs hath called f’r me from in front of the that’d lock’d cubiculo, only unlock’d by mine own voice. i howl’d at the large doth’r; The doth’r did start to ope creakily, and with a high pitch’d squealeth. “mast’r, the doth’r hath opened may we stepeth inside?” hath said one of mine own wond’rful memb’rs. This cult is a dictat’rship, and a stem of satanism. I am the antichrist, and those gents art mine own children. Children of their god, children of the new god. A god in which those gents can believeth, and trusteth in times of needeth; a god in which those gents confide in, and loveth. But most of all, a god who is’t can twisteth their beliefs into sooth. The ritual is eft. Candles all ov’r the flo’r, fireth burning, pits of hell. Burning cloths, and dolls to this v’ry day. T all cameth to an endeth. Fireth burning, bloody walls, that hath killed those folk all. The ritual wast ov’r alas. Silence bruits ‘long the cubiculo. I hast nay idea what that gent’s done, as that gent is unconscious. Didst that gent killeth those men, ‘r wast t the ritual? I hast masterless thy cult, ov’r whose practices; I hast p’rsecut’d timeth with desire, and finds nay oth’r advantage in the processeth but only the losing of humanity by timeth. Alloweth t burneth, t gives us warmth and comf’rt. Alloweth timeth burneth, immortality s a gift; The early phase of life moves festinate. The ashes on the w’rn fusty rug did look liketh snowfall in the middle of July. I wast damned.