|“||There is no home, there is no friends, there is no enemy.||”|
Sell your life to dogs or die a dog, that is the philosophy coined to Mereana Aelsklinça Zoller.
He is a metal-tongued embodiment of grimdarkened Gurdjieffian school and the twisted phantom of revelation about the knowledge of the darkest obscurity of the past and future.
The ultimate Beelzebub's advocate.
He is not evil, but internally cursed from birth.
- His facial expression diplays a vernacular mock of contempt and sways your face with spit of utter disgust.
- He does not play your dear games, and is in fact more in control of you than you are in control of him from Day One.
- You cannot underestimate him, and he will absolutely rip the hell out of your brains with refuting a point to everything you state and do absolutely insane feats just to prove you wrong, and rub the low tier status deeper in your soul, because you're nothing but a three-brained muggle. He seems to sense everything you think.
- He will make you crave his charisma and interesting esoteric personality like a drug and make you convinced you found out life, 42 and God’s truth, until the moment you are worthy of being crushed and awakened, spilling your hopes away just before climax with the terrorizing truths of reality which you will be too afraid to word. Why would he do that? “To squish the egos of fools to self-remember, the wise will have the others” he mentions.
- You could never even put him lower than you, he is a very sly boy. His grins, half-truths and rumination of lunacy are scarier than a Rothschild's.
He can say the slogans to your demise.
“Oh, when will I ever be tried for treason, my allies? Tomorrow lays an egg of my service. I OBVIOUSLY NEVER LEARNED HOW HURT PEOPLE but we ash, asked for it, about me to die from an enlarged spleen.”
But everyone shits on his excentricity and he prefers to remain lonely than loosey.
Some say he is either a mad genius, a prophet or an incarnated demon.
"I can provide profound and truthful explanations for other people's questions if they wanted to kill, but they keep answering themselves with defensive lies as if they wanted to keep that guilty little faith of theirs from fear of losing their sense of safety. Pulling that kill switch creates a confusion between judging the importance and meaning of our outside necessities versus what we are meant to be, and the only way this can be fixed is by listening inward, how funny. All the commotion for the gain of a formless, nowhereland 'meaning' that we forge for ourselves, separate from objective reality. Any king is a professional of the sport. The youth keeper did blasphemy; so therein all is sure ill. This is the purple pill, the sulfur of hear-woe. You can hear, but not see, and woe of expense. The scars keep burning"