but not doomed. That fate lies in our laps.
What fresh wind seeks to scour us of our sins,
this time for the ages, which, depending on who’s talking
may have been some considerable time. Minions,
age and death, and the whole round of holy gods
cavorting like fauns, bold before our witherings.
A few score among us were rife with it.
You could spit on the rest.
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