My people the khobb
We are life, storytellers. Humanity hates that.
We are truth. Truth is uncomfortable. Humans thirst comfort. Comfort is death. Toil is life. Embrace it.
I am holes. I'm all holes. What are holes to you?
I'm a sponge of tear ducts. I drink the salt.
We are writers. We write scientific falsehoods. They are truths. Data seems reliable, infallible. Data is just numbers, we apply truth to it. Or rather we proport lies. Lies with numbers. My lies are truths.
You kill. We die. We run. We hide. We live. You die. You die alone. We remain. We return. Your world is borrowed, humans. It is our world, always has been. You're free to live here, but don't claim it as your own.
You will slay for your name on it. It gets you nothing. Nothing of value. Why must you seek a name so violently?
We're not mutants. You simply lack creativity.
Holes breathe. Don't choke.
