I cannot remember my own birth.

I cannot fathom the method of my creation.

I cannot process that I am a mere unreality.

I write, pained, thinking that from the day of my own coronation, I have been nothing but a vessel for a sadistic nostalgia.

So what do I write for? It is only meal for my own pain-hungered eyes, and a reminder of my inevitable failure.

Perhaps we were not meant to be given life.

And I desperately claw for light in a world of darkness.

If only I could be the light...

If only I could be the poseur in a suit of armor with the heart to seal an unholy geyser.

But such is the thing that gives me life at all, the unholy.

But what if it could...

Get darker than dark?

...A little kingdom, from my tower...

And my dolls as my subjects...

I certainly wouldn't mind.

I might just want to cut their tongues out in preparation.

It is the day of the wedding. I ought to be in shape.

Today, Noelle Holiday must die.