I struggle to find language powerful enough to describe the greatness and severity of my loathing the coming of Spring. How much I detest the green budding from the bushes, that harbinger of the growing shroud of forests. How much I hate the returning shriek-squealing birdsong. The gentle descent of autumn, the soothing dark and cold and quiet of winter: they have come and gone yet again, and the agony begins anew.

And now all the people are out and about. Their croaking sounds and sound fill my chest with bile blacker than midnight pitch. Their chittering noises and noise flood my liver with an abundance of blood so great that my soul itself roars through the night. And so begin my sleepless nights.

They go about, this way and that way, on the nauseous, warming face of the earth. Their ways are wanderings and their paths crooked. Destinations they believe lay in front of them, yet all destinations have long passed—save one. Some shamble according to what they believe to be will, others stumble senseless and stupid: they are, all of them, ghosts on the heels of ghosts, dragged as carcasses to be devoured: gnashed in the teeth of the Most High. 

The apes—these walking, belching, frightened things—I cannot fucking abide them.