Now we are slaves to our own history, New architects of divine treachery. When it's over what becomes of you and I? The bastard sons of a gentile line. There are open graves, desecration our human hands have made. I am throwing myself to the abyss, and the ashes prove the flame. This is what I know of faith. I offer this, some compensation for consequence. I test my method, some expression of my repentance. Now to the architect, construct of imagination, I leave his body as my free-will's evidence of a failed design. I am throwing myself to the jackals. What becomes of you and I? The bastard sons of a gentile line. We're not the hollow vessels, We're not forgotten slaves. We're not an abstract concept. We are not open graves. Now watch it burn to the ground. Watch as I will tear it down. I will break this earth, I will watch it burn. This is offered to you: Can you hear the sound of truth, it's calling out to you. I have one truth, given to me and offered to you. What is dead will rise again.
