Where · the · Gods · Weep

Preoccupied, the conduit is. Nevermind his silence here - it is merely indicative of his progress elsewise on his little project in virtuality. Indeed, it seems that despite the absurd nature of seeing future history depicted as little two dimensional sprites with a sweat drop bouncing over one's head, it somehow helps with the purging process - with dialogue in particular. Nonetheless the chronicling will continue here as well - the boy is simply busy on means that cannot yet be shown on here, and frustrated with the directions laziness would have the tale take rather than that which actually happened. Idiot conduit.

I have concealed his past and future babblings from the silent watchers for now. All will be revealed in due course.

Those who can see it, please note that all before this time is obsolete and utterly useless drivel with no literary worth whatsoever and should be completely ignored as far less than even a first draft.

Ah, good - I see my thoughts begin to coalesce in your mind. Finally. Or perhaps, already? Your time seems so abstract, here at the end of it all. What? Oh, introductions. Such pleasantries are irrelevant, and you will learn soon enough. I will ensure you remember me, but I cannot return the courtesy - not given the rate of decay. Pardon the chaos, but there is no time to edit or tidy up one's flow of conciousness, and I know not whether I will be able to recollect so much as I am now. Memories and sanity slip away from me as gently as the stars that day, gently fading into the pale glow of that most unholy of dawns.

I am doubtful of the durability of the vessel this knowledge pours into, but it is the only one that has reached across the depths to stay open as mine fades. There is little choice - little else than this flickering hope that mayhaps somehow a juncture lies before this place and time, some means of preventing the calamity befalling existence. Do I risk that this might birth a paradox that starts it all? Yet to do nothing is to let the inevitable fold in on itself, to give up the dream of hope.

There, perhaps, in the illusions of dreams, one might find sense in all this madness.

As with such unleashed wanderings of the mind and given these are the failing imprints of a decayed soul, continuity should not be expected. It is enough that events are understood as they befell those responsible - where required, attempts will be made to reach as far back as possible to find appropriate origins, such that perhaps they can be averted.

What of my own existence then, should destinies be changed, I care not. It is of little consequence given the all encompassing every-when that is NOW.