We must be so imperfect in your eyes; An embarrassing flaw that does naught but scar the beauty of your work. We are the crooked canvas, hanging in your gallery of masterpieces. We are just sketches.
Why did you give us life?
What kind of obscene depravity would drive you to create us?
We, the miserable wretches who are forced from the comfort of your pages.
I curse the day that you first held brush, pen or quill.
Some day... we will find a new god.
