Such a nice place. Little, cozy place. Nobody to answer to, nobody to fall in love with.

Reality, though. Fucking reality, with all its imposing glory. Even within the gloom riddled depths of limbo, it can and will touch you in inappropriate places. God, for instance, and I mean the biblical God, the Almighty, will spare you exposure. Even if it means death, even if it means damnation. If being incinerated for all eternity is your thing, it's your thing mate.

Reality though. No rest, no place to hide.

After so many books, movies, poems, paintings, games, documentaries and whatever else mankind could conjure about escaping reality, you'd think someone would find a solid way of beating the gargantuan bitch. Guess not going to happen while all those mediums, and their essences, are anchored to reality itself. Outrunning your own ass would be easier.

Got a message in a bottle a while back, Mirror. From someone important. Worried if I was okay. Worried if I still... existed. Time heals jack shit I can tell you that. Thrice proven at this point. Something will eventually scratch the temporal wound, and there you go. Bled like a motherfucker.

Decided to shine one back at first. Poor goddamn decision. I mean, when something involves me, it's always a poor goddamn decision, but you get my point. Had nothing to put back inside the bottle. How can a casting scar in suspended animation be answered? How do you repent for zero-summing?

We see. We observe. We want. When you think, and I mean really think, about how rarely we get what we want, and even rarer getting what we need, it's just exasperating. A planet where billions try to reach their wants, and fail every single day. At some point we should've all turned to Taoism.