What is it about lying in bed and looking up? Or in the hallway, for that matter, waiting for work to begin. It seems I need to put you in the tumbler, and wear down your edges. Make you shine. But careful not to lie there too long, lest you turn to dust, unrecognizable from the raw thing you began as. It seems I need to put you in a story, just it case this doesn't turn out to be real, and then I'll something to show for it.
I'm not suffocating you anymore, protecting you from my curse. I'm airing you out, because there might be a chance that I'm not damned, even though it terrifies me to say so: temp the Temptress. And whether you turn out to be dust or diamond... it doesn't have anything to do with me.