Sail — You said you wanted truth.

But only if it didn’t ruin your version of events.

Sail drifts like smoke through a ruined cathedral. This is the sound of unlearning—of pulling threads from old myths and watching everything unravel. Heresy doesn’t scream. It states. It sees clearly. It leaves no room for delusion. And for that, it burns.

Dante walks through flaming tombs.

Here lie the ones who denied the soul’s immortality, who clung to their own beliefs louder than the truth. They thought they had answers.

Now, they have fire.

You questioned everything except yourself. You built a god in your own image— and worshipped your pain like it was divine.

You made art of your disillusionment. Told yourself you were brave for breaking things. But you never built anything in their place.

Sail is your elegy.

Your gospel of control.

You wrote yourself as the wounded prophet and couldn’t bear the thought that someone else might be whole without you.

This is where the temple collapses.

Where the altar crumbles.

Where your voice, once soft and sacred, is swallowed by the flame you lit to keep others in the dark.