I am restless.

I live on another plane. I stand slanted, and the people are thin glass edges. I look through them, splinters, and they glisten pretty in the sunlight.

I stay because my religion forbids me to leave, tying me down with fragile cobweb fingers... I want to wave the sticky fibers away and dissolve with them, be done with it.

But not yet. I wait for a last confession, the final cleansing of the soul, before I take what was never mine and offer it back to a god who mistakenly breathed life into a damaged shell.

Until then, all I can do is plan. The deadline is approaching, and I am slowly crawling nearer complete.