Because of the situation, I have been labeled ignominious. No more than a fortnight it took. For me to become the epicenter of fault. In the beginning, I had won your mother's reverential thoughts. Her predilection was towards me, but this glorious epoch in my life was nothing short of ephemeral. Your mother would soon add fetters upon fetters while using her scourge relentlessly. In a frantic, and hopeless, attempt to regain reverence, I begin to speak metaphysical thoughts. As obdurate as you are, you deny my redemption. You continue to exculpate my name, though I am in the wrong. You claim to have built a citadel high above you and me. Except you forget the climb I must conquer, and the great heights and odds I must overcome. I will fall. Already fallen from grace, I am not prepared to bear another. But now, I am confined to my sepulcher, my perdition, waiting for my elixir. To begin my convalescence.