Intended to be read with a gravelly voice
He wakes before sunrise to a dreadful sound hovering around him, like buzzards waiting to feast on carrion still freshly warm and groaning for burial. He feels the death and disgust in the air, blanketing his body, filling his nostrils, infecting his senses. It is too much and he rises. As his feet touch the ground, dozens of six-legged peasants part the way as this king of fools makes his procession. He touches the metal at the door and feels cold, from his fingers to his toes and every place in between, that kind of cold that never leaves heavy men, that was there before he was born and will return when he dies. He pushes through and comes to his pagan temple, where he and all others spend endless hours of ritual in hopes that something would grace his facade with radiance. Knowing this wretched lie, he stares blankly into the glass, before a emotion between shock and amusement surfaces on his face. In this moment of realization he proclaims, "My hair looks just like Neil Gaiman's."