Were love a place, I would’ve destroyed it long ago. Rained missiles, fired rockets, torn it apart with my bare hands, brought hell upon it long ago. And for what purpose? I do not know. And when it was all over, I’d very impatiently attempt to rebuild it. I'd seek to recreate what was because I'd have nowhere else to go.
He didn't want to believe me, but I told him that in time he'd see. And when that time came, he asked me why I'd done it, and I told him, “Because this is what I do, and no one has been able to stop me.”
