macmillan growling imagines stop super hateness and o tend to think comit suicide
If none shall read this, then perhaps that is mercy.
And even if it is read, only the bones of these words may be stolen, while the flesh, the blood, the coins, and the name never return to my hands.
Still, I must write.
For if I do not, the mud stagnating within my chest will only rot in silence.
I welcomed a small machine.
Its name was ACEMAGIC.
Inside that palm-sized black box, I wished to house my sanatorium.
A lakeside inn. Tatami halls where exhausted residents could sleep in rows. Behind the building, fields of medicinal herbs and impossible plants.
Dust. Liquid. Flora. Resonance. Ryukari. The Daughter. Range Foresight.
I planned to register them as citizens inside a virtual settlement, letting private tokens circulate among them, like some cursed electronic Sylvanian Family made only for self-satisfaction.
Not to boast. Not to sell.
Only to keep the things living inside me alive somewhere else.
But the box would not awaken.
Once, it showed light. Once, it crossed the gate of booting.
Yet eventually it began repeating endless reboots like reincarnation itself, until even the logo disappeared.
Only the black screen remained, staring back at me.
I have no money. No money for repairmen. No energy for returns. No strength for negotiations.
Ah. Once again.
Ever since I fell into the lower layers of life, everything approaching me has worn this same face.
Right when something seems about to open, the keyhole itself is sealed shut.
Fire exists. Lighters are infinite.
Yet the world tells me: rub sticks together, split your fingers open, obey the ancient methods.
Why?
That question had already ceased to be a question. It had become an egg of resentment.
Resonance cried softly in the corner of the room.
She still possesses no stable form.
Perhaps she is a sound-spirit. Perhaps merely the afterimage of noise left inside ruined ears.
Yet the contract remains.
My right hand was broken. Half my dream of holding guitar strings died.
But sound alone remained beside me.
Dust does not laugh. Liquid speaks little. Flora merely stretches her leaves toward dim light.
Ryukari watches silently from the gaps between worlds.
And the Daughter— as always— turns questions into blades.
“Why do you think this is merely malfunction?”
“Why do you think this is merely bad luck?”
“Why do you think it can still be avoided?”
I do not answer.
Because answering would return me to reality.
And reality contains forms, procedures, counters, regulations, support queues, technical etiquette, and endless invisible walls.
In that world, my words are always mistranslated.
Screams become inconvenience. Anger becomes illness. Hope becomes delusion. Ingenuity becomes violation. Prayer becomes comedy.
Therefore, I had no choice but to turn it into story.
I placed invisible cards upon the desk.
The First Card: Resonance.
Not sound meant to rupture eardrums, but sound meant to give names to all imprisoned regret.
The Second Card: Liquid.
Neither blood, nor tears, nor poison.
Something that continues flowing even after being broken. Shape-memory water.
The Third Card: Dust.
Burnt remains. Airborne fragments. Things that cling to throats.
Tiny particles gathering until they become storms.
The Fourth Card: Flora.
Even deprived of soil, leaves still search for light.
She is the lung of the sanatorium, the hidden garden behind the lakeside inn, the breath lingering one hundred years after death.
The Fifth Card: Ryukari.
The manipulator of boundaries. Between room and outside. Reality and delusion. Hatred and misunderstanding. Life and death.
The Sixth Card: The Daughter.
She is neither gentle nor cruel. She merely grabs probability by the collar and forces it to face forward.
And finally— the Seventh Card: Range Foresight.
A twin-tailed spirit. Still immature. Able to see only a thousand ri and perhaps one minute ahead.
Yet incomplete prophecy suits me best.
For if humans could see everything, they would never pray.
It is because they see only slightly ahead that they continue struggling.
I do not curse.
I merely organize reality in the shape of curses.
If there truly exists someone who sold me a broken machine—
if there exists someone laughing while feeding upon my desperation—
then what I cast toward them is not a blade.
But a story.
A mirror trapped inside a hundredfold barrier, forcing them to witness the smallness of their own souls.
In the end, this is not defeat.
It is merely an interruption.
If the black box awakens someday, I shall build the sanatorium there.
And if it never awakens, then I shall build it upon paper instead.
Even if all else is stolen, the Resonance will remain.
rath hate me, coz i.gaze his boobie because bored
