The Great Demise

Well, here we find ourselves on the evening before the morn of my demise. What might my untimely end be, you may ask? The extraction of my wisest teeth. I fear that I shall no longer be who I once was, given that they hold some of my wisest gnomosity. What shall I do without the additional gnomosity? Shall I sink into a gnomeless existence? Nay, that would be unlikely, given that it is impossible to return my gnomes to their tiny spore form.Then what? Perhaps I should consider what the wisdom in those teeth may be?

Shall it be the translation of the gnomes? Nay, for I fear that is the language of the heart, and not of the tooth. It may be that the wisdom in those four ivories has nothing to do with language. Maybe the wisdom is that of experience? I think not, for one cannot unlearn that which the soul and spirit have witnessed. That of wit? Implausible, for wit is of the mind, and teeth are unrelated to the quickness of the higher conciousness.

I’ve come to it at last.

The wisdom in the teeth is not to be lost. For the nature of the nerves which have captivated my existence is thusly ridiculous. I say nonsensical! Such laughable frivolousness! What grand scheme would allow such delightful character traits to be so easily accessible? And so easily removed? Instead, then, I shall reveal that I am not fond of being put into unconciousness, and I am equally disgusted with being incapacitated. It is there my true demise may be found. While I scoff at gauze, and grimace at potions, and sniff at ichorous brews… I shall learn patience. And soon, my demise shall be but a myth gone by.

I shall return,

The Handler.


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