Why have the gods cursed me with uncontrollable passion for this garden!? The outside is magnificent, compelling with wondrous splendour. Yet those who discovered it before me left its interior in ruin. I tried, against my will as hard as I might, to resist the call to go further in, yet I found that my legs took it upon themselves to slowly drag me deeper. The garden views me as no different than those who came before; I am viewed as yet another pestilence. The closer I draw to the centre, the heavier its defences become—thorns begin to liberate my flesh from bone as sulphuric rain licks my wounds. If I cannot find a way to defy my will and run from this place, I will surely be destroyed. Even if I were to break free, callous shall grow over and harden me to protect the frailty within and I will be forced to bear the scars of damage done by those who were empty, scouring the beauty of the innermost sanctum of the garden in a vain attempt to fill themselves by capturing within them that which does there dwell, now trapped by a prison of its own design.