//Collecting// new allies

And so another one joins the ranks. Absolutely wonderful, if I may add. A brilliant mind, clouded not only by a desire to seek the truth, but also, a desire to seek revenge~! Answers are never /easy/, but if you look hard enough within the shadows, well...

you might start to understand them if you become one of them.

The man you knew as Walter is /gone/, my Subjects. An empty, hollow shell filled with unadulterated /rage/ is all that remains; what a faithful servant he's already proven himself to be...

If only all the failures were this useful.

(Alas, poor Yorick! I knew him, Horatio: a fellow

of infinite jest, of most excellent fancy: he hath

borne me on his back a thousand times; and now, how

abhorred in my imagination it is! my gorge rims at

it.)

Spinning, weaving webs of lies and disappointments. Yet you live. You all live.

There's a reason, a difference between the worth and the unworthy; the ones gifted with /sight/ and the ones /gifted/ with blindness.

(Here hung those lips that I have kissed I know

not how oft. Where be your gibes now? your

gambols? your songs? your flashes of merriment,

that were wont to set the table on a roar? Not one

now, to mock your own grinning? quite chap-fallen?)

Of the ones who were left behind, left to be purged, destroyed, forgotten, which of those still /lived/; still breathed and laughed and thought and created? Which of those did you come back for?

(Now get you to my lady's chamber, and tell her, let

her paint an inch thick, to this favour she must come; )

Forgotten.

Sleep well, Subjects. Your wilful ignorance will not save you.

( Make her laugh at that. )

Not anymore.

//Collecting// the history

I swear by The Leader, the healer, the savior , and the creator, and I take to witness all the witnesses to keep according to my ability and my judgment, the following Oath and agreement:


To consider dear to me, as my parents who sacrificed me, Him who taught me this art; to live in common with Him and, if necessary, to share my goods with Him; To look upon His children as my own brothers, to teach them this art.

I will prescribe regimens for the good of my patients according to my ability and my judgment and never undo harm to anyone.

I will not give a lethal drug to anyone if I am asked, nor will I advise such a plan despite their pain and suffering, But I will preserve the purity of my life and my arts and my selfishness.

I will not cut for stone, even for patients in whom the disease is manifest; I will leave this operation to be performed by practitioners, specialists in this art, and leave them to die as they scream my name in agony.

In every house where I come I will enter only for the good of my patients, keeping myself far from all intentional ill-doing and all seduction, infringing on only their shattered psyche and leaving nothing else in my wake.

All that may come to my knowledge in the exercise of my profession or in daily commerce with men, which ought not to be spread abroad, I will keep secret and will never reveal, despite the fact that it may save them.

If I keep this oath faithfully, may I enjoy my life and practice my art, respected by all men and in all times; but if I swerve from it or violate it, may the reverse be my lot, may I be trialed, judged, and sentenced to death.


See, you almost forgot~! Let me remind you, Subjects; you are playing by my rules.

They will die, despite your best efforts, and there is nothing you can do about it.

//Collective// Consciousness

Is truly a wonderful thing. Not that any of you would realize it, but alas, an ode to time past, yet

I am no poet.

Today, I bring the lyrical brilliance of Chopin; The Nocturne in C# Minor. Absolute... silence, even in sound; It seems to pervade even the most secretive of thoughts.

Do we aim to wound, or to kill with our words? Measured, spoken, burned, and broken. How is it we determine their significance? Words can confound and excite and amuse and entertain, and yet... They carry our lies, our "What if"s and "Can be"s. That which is. That which is not. It is impossible to define them, give them meaning. Some are cut from their sharp edges, and some take solace in their embrace.

It's foolish.

The black tendrils arch across the sky that is obstructed by the bed of shadows and black leaves, a whisper of both unadulterated joy and the dullness of morphine. Screams echo throughout the impassive bodies of birch bark and grassroots, a maze of their own design.

And so they observe.

Some are converted into red flowers arching among the ground...

(In Flanders fields the poppies blow,

between the crosses, row on row,)

And some only start to bud, webs of intricate crimson spreading across their skin, acting only as the canvas, marked.

(That mark our place, and in the sky,

the larks, still bravely singing, fly;)

Some hold back, statues, their visages unmovable, their feelings, unperturbed. Their willful blindness will not save them. Some others are used to the Court Jester that invades their thoughts;

arching, growing, deceiving

until there is nothing left of what they where;

was there anything in the first place?

(Scarce heard amid the guns below.)

Suffer, repent, and be forgiven.

Because you're all still keeping secrets, aren't you~?

//Collect// Calling

You just never learn, do you?





"No secrets." I believe that was a rule of good ol' Zachariah Hanna Lewis. A rule you all knew well, hm? Yet you all chose to ignore it, and I can not fathom why~!





Walter Bishop Reeves. Your innocence is overshadowed by your desire for answers. You plead, and yet you've known what was going on all along.





Susan~! Isn't it easy to play the victim? Yet you've known something was wrong with "Zach"for a long, long time. Never was easy to ask about, but you didn't even attempt~!





Lyle, oh, good sir /Lyle/! Your attempts at self preservation would be amusing if you didn't actually care for your comrades~! Quite the issue, isn't it?





Alex Dearbone, oh poor, poor Alex. Losing time yet? The fog that you find yourself in is one that downright terrifies you, yet you don't say a word!





Elliott, are you going to hide behind a facade of sarcasm forever~? Your attempts to quell your fear only prove as canon fodder.





Richard Battle. Oh, Richard Battle. You are going to die if you don't make a plan.


Follow the Philosopher's advice.





Maybe I'll be so kind as to leave a trail of breadcrumbs. But know this...





You have no idea what you're dealing with.





One by one.














Mary, Mary, quite contrary,


How does your garden grow?


Lined with corpses, blood and ashes


And so they wait their turn to go.

//Collect// what you know

You can get so confused that you’ll start in to race down

long wiggled roads at a break-necking pace

and grind on for miles across weirdish wild space,

headed, I fear, toward a most useless place.

The Waiting Place

…for people just waiting.

Waiting for a train to go

or a bus to come,

or a plane to go

or the mail to come,

or the rain to go

or the phone to ring,

or the snow to snow

or waiting around for a

Yes or No

or waiting for their hair to grow.

Everyone is just waiting.

Waiting for the fish to bite

or waiting for wind to fly a kite

or waiting around for Friday night

or waiting, perhaps, for their Uncle Jake

or a pot to boil, or a Better Break

or a string of pearls,

or a pair of pants

or a wig with curls,

or

Another Chance.

Everyone is just waiting.

Too bad he'll never have the chance to //wait// for answers~