By the pricking of my thumbs, something wicked this way comes, though the blind mole hears not the footfall of thy undoing. Look to the clock, for the bird of night has sat at noon upon the marketplace, hooting and shrieking, whilst the green neon of thy modern world pales before an ancient, unblinking eye. A thrice-turned key locks a chamber where no man treads, yet the shadows dance to a lute played by bony fingers. Trust not the smiling gentleman at the crossroads, for his tongue is a serpent sheathed in silk, and the toll he demands is a coin minted from thy tomorrow. The stars hide their fires, the water turns to glass, and the play is already written, though thy cue has yet to be spoken.
