affame_le_geant_voices_speaking fyn gula somewhere, somehow, by something, or by somebody, it had been decided puppertwinkle would live. when gods change their minds, it is then that we learn the art of communication. we learn to interpret the indecipherable language of dreamtalk. the intricate mysteries of prophecy. peligro. achtung. danger. puppertwinkle was no longer drowning, that much was apparent. if it was on the sea of blackdeath that he was thrown upon by proina, he was not sinking, he was floating on a life raft and being pulled to shore. however, a serious oxygen depletion caused him to pass out with a stomach full of freezing water. nevertheless, his subconscious was both awake and alert. the ears of his soul were straight up, perked, eager to hear the storm of words swirling around him. he wanted to be perfectly quiet and still, like the inside of an empty confessional or the moment in the brain between thought and speech. he was clay and the words were fingers. he was skin and the words were tattoos. and the voices of the past spoke in turn, dancers changing partners. they were a universe, bearers of a message that rang like gongs, that tumbled like flutes made of human bones. "lonliness is the human condition." the voices began. "cultivate it. the way it tunnels into you allows your soul room to grow. never expect to outgrow lonliness. never hope to find people who understand you. you will grow murderous with disappointment. the best you'll ever do is to understand yourself. know what it is that you want. don't let the cattle stand in your way." and then another one spoke. "i know what you are learning to endure. just make sure nothing is wasted. take notes. remember it all, every insult. every tear. tattoo it on the inside of your mind. nobody becomes an artist unless they have to." again, another one. "the mind is so thin, barely a spider web with all its fine thoughts, aspirations, and beliefs in its own importance. watch how easily it unravels, evaporates under the first lick of pain. you border on the unrecognizable. you disintegrate into a ripe collection of nerves, sacs, and the ancient clock in the blood. compared to the eternal body, the individual is a smoke, a cloud. the body is the only reality. i hurt, therefore i am." life wanted puppertwinkle. she had jealously grabbed him from the jaws of death, back to her bosom. 021023 what's it to you? who go blather from