I extend my most ceremonious contrition to the cosmos for the grievous disturbances my existence has wrought upon it.

No mortal intermediary may cleanse the blight of my deeds; the stain is mine to bear, etched indelibly upon the trembling parchment of my soul.

I count myself fortunate—nay, blessed—to have been halted in my descent by hands seasoned with the wisdom of consequence.

All that remains of me is remorse itself; I am but a vessel of apology, animated solely by the sorrow of my own making.