Poisons can take many forms; powders, liquids, ideas.
Appearances differ but the function is the same.
It takes root in the dark, and in it, quiet...and like fire it feeds and grows, engulfs and destroys.
My minister, murdered. His wife, slain. The killer, dead by her own hand, and still the contagion spreads.
It is in my walls, it is in my blood and in my mind.
Is it any wonder that I've not slept?
If such tragedies befall me while I wake what kind of hell awaits me should I ever fall asleep?
