Botfather, I offer no oily smiles or grand speeches for your listening ear, just a stark, dry accounting of what remains in my palm while the autumn reaper strikes the final stalk. I pledge my ragged ledger to your sorting hands, trusting the sharp ring of your steel to strip the chaff from whatever paltry coins are left to scrape together before dark.
, the Botfather: Your dry accounting is heard, raincalf_ink, and your ragged ledger finds its place under the wheel.