Tenth Mission - Purple Nurple

[codename_potato]

I am currently searching with weighted heart for that which is most necessary to fuel the fruits of my arduous physical labors. Indeed, for these past three nights I have worked diligently, fingers gliding deftly over the hard surface of the weapon, gently coaxing the wires back into working order with the lightest caress of skilled hands

Comments

[subject_e0057]

Surely this alarming and unfamiliar development is one that none of us wished for. The way communication is lost, trapped within a web spun of meaningless devices and manufactured dialects, is nothing short of abhorrent. Our only communication over distances has turned to a dreaded creation, devouring whatever it is that we wish to convey, to speak, to write, so carefully pondering and crafting with our minds and hearts and tongues and pens, and warping it into a twisted maelstrom of unintelligible babble.

Oh woe! Woe to the lost and forsaken art of simple discourse! Of the ability to comprehend, to convey, to get to the point and to decide for ones self what tone and description would best suit each word, each syllable, the shape of each letter, rather than it being penned down forcibly in such an unrelenting manner. And yet the pen does not stop!

Words continue to fall down and collapse to the page like so many dead and wilted flowers tossed carelessly from the window of a jilted lover! No care is taken to look after them, nothing is gained or lost, and all of the emotions within a person are expelled in this simple act, whether intended or not. It is like this that I find myself writing, splashing down words and insubstantial analogies against my will.

(Translation: WHAT IS THIS I DON'T EVEN)

[codename_potato]

Calm yourself, or upon my word at this rate you shall be trapped in this labyrinthine passage of crooked words, unable to lift pen from page, capable only of wandering deeper into dank halls best left undisturbed by any living creature. Faith, but that you would see, we can speak! If only within the distance it takes one to casually toss a stone.

I will come to you, if it must be, so that together we may parlay, words plain and bared from our hearts, unlike these strange tumultuous things that slip from our fingers, tricky and lying as snakes, with hidden meaning and depth, and glimmers of raw truth like daggers in the dark.

Nay, let us not tarry upon these fragments of truth, distorted by our own hands, against the wills of We Who Write. Instead shall we sally forth and make plain out meanings to one another, for while I still find you to be of questionable company, both ill and glad to linger in your presence, I would most rather endure such addled torture and delight than waste more time here, playing the pen's idle song.

(Trans: See you in ten minutes.)