From the Ramblings of Bony R.F. Farstar…
Stories. So many stories.
They flow through my brain, through my fingertips, through the tube connected to my spine. They pour through me faster than I can write them down. My hand races across the page, blisters scarring my fingertips and dotting the words with blood.
A thirst for knowledge brought me here, centuries ago, now I’m trapped by it. Because now I know it’s all a lie, or it’s all true I suppose, depending on how you look at it.
It didn’t used to be true, but even as I write the words I can see history reforming, reshaping, to match my vision. No one should have that much power, not even the God Machine, and yet here I am.
Monsters and magic swirl around science, a macabre mix-up that should never have come about, that’s what we’ve come to.
The truth is a lie and all lies are truth.
My back aches and my fingers scream in protest but I can’t drop the pen, I can’t tear my eyes from the words. This is what my life has become, rearranging meaningless symbols to form words, sentences, stories.
If I stopped…
History would stop. Time would stop. All life in the universe would stop.
Or at least, that’s what I’ve been told. Until this decade I hadn’t reached a level of agony that made me consider testing it.
But now each year brings a new level of pain that presses against my eyes and makes my spine scream. My knuckles have swollen to the size of golf-balls, clutched around the moving pen.
I don’t know how much longer I can hold the torment inside…
But if I let it out, what will happen to the stories? Will they escape and become even more broken, destructive?
I just have to keep writing… keep feeding the machine…
So many stories.