To the night comes the flight of thy light, a process of a surgeon of called space. Ignored and adored, yet abhorred under the light and under the might of the night and unpleasant plight from both sides of the fight, at both the light and the night creases, to feverishly lease a moment of life in this moment of lifeline or tax time, a tome of pace exists. It persists, it magnificently insists, and the unbothered insects insist that it may be a cyst of the sin of why we harbor the list of this exit, an underlying abscess absent to his fist, yet he persists that it lives in bliss. His name is Hiss, and this is the list. The hardened fists of little Frisk and little Lit.
I bestow upon you my hiss.