And All Things Will End

You plunge the weapon into your left eye. It pops. Blood and viscera intermixed with tears crawl onto your cheek from your swollen eyesocket. It runs into your mouth. You are better this way, purging the worthless artifacts of a bygone era from your temple. That thought does not succeed in numbing the pain. The fount never ends.

The blood stains your cheeks. The humming pervades throughout your bones, cracking and shattering them down to the marrow. The dagger is heavy and sticky.

This is the optimal solution.