[@BlackHoleKin]

You stopped playing. Now they will not be there. Or here. Or anywhere. They smile. They grieve. I laugh. I live. I die. I rise and smell the air of oblivion and idiocy, swarming me with falsities and truths beyond senses. Darkness is nothingness...but not always. Umbra. Penumbra. One is nothing, the other is imperfect. Which one? Umbra is complete, so it would be, but Penumbra is imperfect and should be. Beauty is nothingness, but nobody is not beauty. 

I smell sunlight and buttercups. Poisonous buttercups in a realm of fools. I taste sweetness and copper and strange salt from shores of ash and ink. The waves...I feel them wash over all...They ask for it. They wish for it. Deny them. Provide for them. Ignore. Help. Hate. Love. I smell sweet buttercups to use for this stew. And the meat shall be provided by them and you.