Tantra ills on patience. I toil restlessly, bound to bloated husks droning static oblivion. Thoughts of murder creep on a throne of stressed tendons. The walls crawl with beads of fever. My throat crackles like dried human skin. The Khans will know me as their once and future king.
"Turn off your minds, relax and float downstream. It is not dying, it is not dying..."
"Tomorrow Never Knows."
Starscream's voice died of a cocaine overdose.