3 December 2017 1:03 PM (dream)
I dreamed about a demon who was suddenly, for some reason, disillusioned with pain and suffering. This could have gone very bad for him, but he had a plan. For you see, demons are enamored above and beyond anything else of poetry and any kind of oratory that has a certain Sturm and Drang. They aren't very good at writing, it, though, so he kept portraying bombastic poetry and giving fine speeches under the coaching of a human girl and a squirrel who spent most of its time perched on his shoulder giving him advice.
The thing was, every time the demon would come up with some new poetry about wild nature and the futility of all ambitions and passionate strength in the face of defeat his fellow demons would howl in acclamation and fill him with greater and greater power. Until by the time one of them got suspicious that apart from his poetry he wasn't acting very demonic and tried to attack him, he was so strong he could just swat someone aside into another space without even tormenting them.
By the time I woke up this demon and another were engaged in a duel by red hot needle, each wiggling it a bit further into their opponent's head to try and fish out and fish for weaknesses to force upon them.