(VI)
The frogs' memories aren't their own,
They have origins in the abyss.
Back then, everything was starting to take form,
Consuming the moon's calendar.
The sky scribbles and doodles,
The ocean smears and erases,
Creating tedious cycles,
Conjuring nonexistent meanings.
Floating grease in chimneys,
Sulfur and iron's power sold in bulk.
Contests of severing tails,
Self-digesting celestial bodies.
The blind who record "light,"
Cursed machines of "mass production."
Nonexistent memories originating from the abyss,
Everything so reversed,
Everything so detached.
The frogs sing at the top of their lungs,
Praising the most loyal betrayal,
Worshiping the most shameful deity.
Text shown verbatim from the game's own data files, in the language you're currently browsing.
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