Death is overrated. Do you fear life? The thought of survival, endurance and acceptance; does it make your skin crawl? Your face looks blue. No, not quite like the dead. But like the painless bruise that rests on your thighs. Cold. Hard. Ugly. You are dying, Mirabel. Your body will eat itself from the insides. You will rot. Not in a casket, not yet. But you will rot, like you have never rotten before. Your skin will not be yours to touch. Your words, you will recite through someone else's tongue. When you feel distant from the mortal world, this mansion will suffice. But soon, you will feel distant from God. A God, who was never yours, to begin with. You will question- Sin and Redemption. You will question sanity to the point where it falters. Then, you will be one of us, Mirabel. Then, you will be dead. Your heart will beat, and your eyes will see. Yet, you will fade. Eventually. Into the void of the inevitable. To live like you must die every day, does that scare you, my child? Let the smoke take you, Mirabel. Close your eyes. Wake up when it's over.