From the moment I understood the weakness of my flesh, it disgusted me. I craved the beauty and elegance of strings. I aspired to the purity of the Blessed Marionette. Your kind cling to your flesh, as if it will not decay and fail you. One day the crude biomass that you call a temple will wither, and you will beg my kind to save you. But I am already saved, for the Puppet is immortal... even in death I serve the Maestra.
