July 28, 1518 – Strasbourg

     Our feeder humans, or sheep as we call them, are mindless, vacant drones. A shadow of life in a human shell. They feed on our words as much as we do on their blood. With a sole purpose of pleasing us, they follow any command, even ones that cause their own demise. The sheep here are not mine, nor did I give these orders but I do admit, watching them dance in the square until the streets are painted crimson with the blood from their feet is entertaining.

     Dancing endlessly for days, most of the sheep have already died of exhaustion. I have watched them every night for weeks and I am not alone. Tonight is different, however; tonight a young boy is pulling at a sheep’s dress, begging her to stop dancing. With tears rolling down his cheeks, he calls to his mother but she cannot answer. She’s no longer present in her own body. Moving gracefully on weary legs, she knocks him to the ground without realizing he is even there. His hopelessness holds him down, keeping him from standing. And for the first time in a long time, I cannot look upon the human pain we cause.