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Binxsknight, a retired fat retard, writes a book. In it, he calls my arrival the dawn of the super sperg. I am not sure if I know what that means.
It is Christmas, 2025. Bianca tells me she is afraid, and worried. She says I am like all her other stalkers now. I tell her I don’t think there are other stalks, and if there is, I’m nothing like them. I tell her I still want to watch her and that I always will.
As I lie to her, it is September 4th, 2026. I am in a room full of people wearing Guy Fawkes masks. A very young girl looks at me and smiles. She’s beautiful. After each long kiss, she plants a smaller, gentler one upon my lips, like a signature.
Bianca accuses me of chasing jailbait. She bursts into angry tears, asking if it’s because she’s getting older. It’s true. She’s aging more noticeably every day, while I am standing still.
I prefer the stillness here. I am tired of Earth. These people. I’m tired of being caught in the tangle of their lives. They claim their labors are to build a heaven, yet their heaven is populated with horrors. Perhaps the world is not made. Perhaps nothing is made. A clock without a craftsman. It’s too late. Always has been, always will be, too late.
