The muses come to me at night and leer with their rotting death skull faces. Maggots drop from them onto my desk as they compel me to write. They show me death brought about in ten thousand terrible ways and things that are so much worse than death that the mind must shy away to preserve one's sanity.
It is my weakness that forces me to submit these manuscripts for publication. Had I the courage I would shoot myself, but alas, I do not. I can only release myself from these visions of Hell by passing them on to you.