To make yourself, it is also necessary to destroy yourself.

I’ll stuff you with misery till it comes out of your eyes. I’ll change your heart into green grass, and all you love into a sheep. I’ll turn you into a bad poet with dreams.

You have created a monster and it will destroy you.

Of most dreadful suffering, I am the cause.

I desire the things which will destroy me in the end.

I made him with these hands, and with these hands I'll destroy him.

I am malicious because I am miserable

You pile of stones, you waste, you desolation, I'll stuff you with misery till it comes out of your eyes. I'll change your heart into green grass, and all you love into a sheep. I'll turn you into a bad poet with dreams.

For those whom God to ruin has design'd,
He fits for fate, and first destroys their mind.

And I'm a woman made of sorrow.

Maybe your misery is the weapon you brandish in your hatred for those who rose upward while you waited and sank. Maybe your misery is your attempt to prove the world's injustice, instead of the evidence of your own sin, your missing of the mark, your conscious refusal to strive and live. Maybe your willingness to suffer in failure is inexhaustible, given what you use that suffering to prove. Maybe it's your revenge on Being. How exactly should I befriend you when you're in such a place? How could I?

I have been chosen for the destruction of the enemies of the Faith.

In a sense, I'm the one who ruined me: I did it myself.

I am mortal, born to love and to suffer.