You also rule a world, Morpheus. A world of sleepers and dreamers, of stories. A simple place compared to hell. I envy you. Can you imagine what it was like? Ten billion years providing a place for dead mortals to torture themselves? And like all masochists, they called the shots. 'Burn me.' 'Freeze me.' 'Eat me.' 'Hurt me.' And we did. Why do they blame me for all their little failings? They use my name as if I spent my entire day sitting on their shoulders, forcing them to commit acts they would otherwise find repulsive. 'The Devil made me do it.' I have never made any one of them do anything. Never. They live their own tiny lives. I do not live their lives for them.
I don't make them come here. They talk of me going around and buying souls, like a fishwife come market day, never stopping to ask themselves why. I need no souls. And how can anyone own a soul? No. They belong to themselves... They just hate to have to face up to it.
Do you mind? I'm trying to enjoy the sunset.
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