I run through the shipyard, I like seeing the giant husks and skeletons of ships, they look like dinosaur bones.
This whole place is a dwelling for the unnamed Gods people worship. Life with people sickens me more than disease, if I ever meet anyone genuine I'll fall into their arms like a tired savage, full of tomahawk wounds and deep gashes with missing flesh, enemy intestines and slimy chunks of hair all over me, black poison arrows stuck in me like a porcupine, nearly dead, I'll be the bleeding gift of destruction's warpath. Like Christ's return, I do not come here to speak poetry, my love.