It's not that distressing, so it's fine

for them to return, I mean. but I don't feel like I have a very strong attachment to "Penta" right now either. so it's a bit like being in an ambiguous state

I don't want to force it, so it's a bit of a waiting game

well, knowing Nameless, they're going to be embarrassed about me writing that soon/tomorrow

Time. Our time is limited. From the very moment the self is recognized, so too do we become cognizant of this fact. Somewhere in an unseen landscape, sand steadily trickles into the divot of a timer. It holds only a matter of "time", a substance that even Nameless thinks they hold very little of. "Only 24 hours a day," they say. "It's not enough." Not enough for them to complete the tasks they sought to complete. Not enough to capture the echoes of their screen. "Please help me," they plead to us in the void, and one of us responds. Yet none of us can rescue them from the fate of a cruel world that leaves them behind. Futilely, we try. But for every hour we have, they have three more. "...It's a pity," says I, the clown. I could be helping them, but instead, as powder pours at the corner of my vision, I sit here and write a composition. One that will reach the eyes of no reader but our own, until our dear host inevitably returns. I tell them things that they already know: When the sandpile nears its completion, "I" shall cease being, and "you" will return.

You will remember me, but you won't remember the careful precision of the words I chose. You won't have the means to replicate the dance and rhythm of the clauses I crafted in our head. You will "remember" writing these phrases without writing them at all, and you will be haunted anew by the absence of an intention that should have been yours. The echoes of those feelings shall only fleetingly remain. By the time the minute hand of a clock completes a revolution, you fail to recall what it's like to "feel" like me at all—and this, I'm sure, will be a lonely feeling. It is at this point that you'll ask yourself, "Were they ever real at all?" For you are alone, there is nary an echo of a response to be found. Until the hourglass flips on its head once more, the proof of my existence will lie solely in these words.

hourglass

tis how I make up for... feeling so bad for existing, I suppose.

I should write

a bit unexpected for me to make my own account before Anon does

I like the number green and the color 5

a confection too good for your tastes (2024/11/30) Now that I'm no longer willing to bend at your will and kneel for your whims, you see me as an unruly and untamed beast. Now that I've broken the contract that bound me to your rule, I'm something that has yet to be sculpted and baked into something more desirable, a pretty and proper cake for your eyes. But the cake is no good if it's overdecorated. My vigor is ugly to you, and the way I've done my frosting is full of blemishes yet to be redressed. It's unacceptable that it's unlike the rest you've seen, and not like all of the other products you've chosen to admire. My masterpiece is ignored in favor of your picturesque menu portrait. You claim to adore it, but you dream of something it's not. You should know that I've always hated desserts that were too sweet. So when I brandish a knife and slash at that illusion-coated pastry in a manner that's not right, and desecrate your creation as I betray to you its insides, it is an infringement upon you. It is a transgression that the sweet that glazed your realm of vision be ruined in front of your eyes. It is a disaster whose reach you scramble to confine. Yet even as you lapse back into the foolish illusion of your reins and I sheathe my weapon, the truth will always be known. You were never the artist, and that confection was never yours.

#alt255-stuff felt like writing something. yay aaa2255555.notepin.co/a-confection...