“The Thrice Pricked’s rose stood forever firmly planted in crimson- with time, as far flung in the depths as it was close to grasping the sun.
The rose never withered and it’s cloak of thorns never waned- for many were those who desired to pluck it, and so many were the bodies who fell, and the blood kept ever flowing.
And so the rose forever remained nourished, and so forever kept new bushes of thorn sprouting from bodies.
But as the thorns deterred all of the outside world, so the thorns kept the rose firmly planted in isolation.”