It glides, scales and skin and muscles and bones, a unity, a sliding. Elongated, serpentine, a constriction. Many a truth is spoken in jest, a perhaps plot of twisted whispered words. I have no use of it, for it, with it, I have no means to uncover it for others; seek it for yourself. The flickering globe within the box, beware the assumptions and question the rationale. Even magicians feel anxious behind the curtain before the performance. What magic is this? Summon me a skeptic who believes in faith of love, not someone whose ambitions revolve around materialism. The coils of greed tighten again.

It is a long dark road and something massive with matted bloody shaggy hair and small eyes and a cavernous long-toothed mouth slouches this way.