#I don't remember if cPhil even cared about him before his descent i remember letters but were they consistent

[saint-hymn]

I think it was much like the flow of this story. Slow realization. Some molasses-thick self-fulfilling prophecy.

My accent in interpretation will be horrible, but bear with me: first is the trust put in the dream. Trust that he knows how to do this by heart. It beats, fresh and bloody, percussion to his legislation. Shout to the empty seats. Truth hidden fifty seats empty. Enrapture the audience. Make them dance to your tune. Down the cliff, Piper. Internalize it.

(Tangentially related: cWilbur is never just himself. He is always a costume. Always a role. The revolutionary, the president, the outcast, the terrorist, the dead, the un-living, the penitent, the coward.)

The rot settles. They lost. He spreads his arms—I am a slow burning fuse—and the crowd shifts uncomfortably. Performance for the sake of truth. Made bloody in a way that sets your nerves on fire with the sticking and clotting on skin. Feel the ravine's breath. Has it not become colder? Paranoia in his fists echoing on stone walls. Do we not hear anything yet of the noise of the gravediggers who are burying his dream? Do we not smell anything yet of L'Manburg's decomposition?

Perform for an audience of none. Count and scream to the putrefaction. No one's paying to listen to the Idiot Doom Spiral's shaky drivels; they all bled under a knife no one wants to wipe. Who drove it in? Was the ex-president's failed coup de grace, dying dream sputtering and shrieking in terror still? The new killing the old? Viscera spilled on mizbeach for the love of the game? Incompatible dreams tearing each other apart?

Truth was not laid bare, I think. I think it was ripped out of the floorboards, the foundations; violently made to show itself. You will see the real; something messy, sticky, unplanned, repulsive, a performance made true. Desperation boils. The rot suffocates. Scratched-out words on stone walls. Fingers thick with gunpowder; hear, hear, the prophet of Holy Trinitrotoluene. The deafening choir of shockwaves and shrapnel. His voice cracks and breaks with his land and his ribs. A corpse bows. Exit stage left. Amen.

I am on break at work and it shall be around 2:55 pm when this reaches you, so I cannot properly respond as is- though if you truly want a sample of my writing, I’ll see if I can gather some. A long ask ahead for that one, along with some shorter responses, perhaps a chainsaw instead of a scalpel if you want to reach the core.

Also, to the other anons and folks so intrigued by this all- I had no idea I’d garner such an audience to my study! I hope it doesn’t affect the results. Perhaps it should stay on stage for just a bit longer, the anonymity is fun.

To throw on one note of a caw though- I will not correct you but add on: it’s the concept of clay being carved. It does not hurt, it does not weep, but then once you are human you look back and see that would’ve hurt if I were different. I am different. Does it hurt? Despite the fact that there is no wound at all.

—studying anon (or whatever nickname, I accept all. See you soon!)

it would've hurt. Now, here, we're beholding each brushstroke of the knife-that-was and questioning the absence of pain then that would have been something if we were what we are now. I'm understanding the steps to this dance.

Hello again! Then, by the time I've answered the ask it should be... 8:30 AM-ish for you? I feel like a backstage worker that's gotten yanked to the limelights. Know now that I am only the scribe, Apollo, typewriter and painter but never the figure never the muse. Pardon my dust.

If anything, you're gaining novel data by putting me in an entirely new environment. I've only ever written for two-three pairs of eyes, never an audience, never this open, never splayed in a game and a dance I'm new to. It's a welcome change of pace! Please, I'll put the obsidian down and get a Husqvarna running for you.

Here, something for you, again, for the sake of wanting to hear your thoughts: what do you think about self-martyrization to empty seats, blood spilling for an empty altar—unhearing god? There is no salvation offered through a self-imposed suffering. Messiah to none. Holding onto the hurt thinking there is virtue in the red. The cage is open. Walk out. There's naught left, so why insist on holding onto it? Suffering framed as a masterpiece but it bored everyone to death.