That which thou hast taken for a “tatari” is no curse, nor spite, nor grudge.
It is another thing entirely.
At first, it entereth small—like a thorn beneath the skin of thy fingertip.
Then, little by little, it spreadeth.
Wider.
And wider still.
By the time thou dost perceive it, it is already too late.
Thou and the thing thou callest “tatari” become so mingled that one can no longer tell which of the two is truly thee.
And once it hath come to that, there remaineth naught to do but await the encroachment.
Whether death cometh first, or whether thou art wholly consumed…
Tell me, then.
Art thou fortunate?
Dost thou believe in a world beyond death?
I see…
So that is thy answer.
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