Those caverns were deep and dark. And the passageways to the hidden memories reek with the stench of rot. I wander alone down there on the blackest nights, despair like a cold hard knot in my gut. I've opened doors that are best left alone, I've raised spirits from the ground. Awaken to the chill of my bones.
It seems we learn our lessons over and over, attempting to gain mastery over them. Sometimes we grow weaker with age and time, until crippled, we let it go.
There is no master, only the slave. The slave reacts, does not control. I've raised spirits from the ground, and now they are thirsty for my blood.
Inconsolable. This world has become so cold and barren. How does it ever preserve life?