(A Nostalgic Embodiment)
I. Prologue: The Imbalance
Beneath a sky of indeterminate hue,
Where metaphors dripped from the lamplight’s view,
There stood a figure with storied might—
Whose IMAGINATION burned too bright.
They bent the frame of every law,
Wrote truths in smoke, in blood, in straw.
But every time they raised their pen,
They found the void looked back again.
"Too light," the voice beneath the bedframe hissed.
"Too bright to cast the proper fist.
Where is the weight? Where is the gloom?
You walk through myths but leave no tomb."
II. The Oath Beneath the Neon
So in a diner that only exists when it’s raining,
They ordered black coffee and called it training.
No sugar. No cream. No need to explain.
Just sipped from the cup like a priest in pain.
"I will not seek to shine, but to echo.
I will not rhyme, but I may bellow.
Let my next line land like a crowbar sigh—
And may every metaphor taste like goodbye."
III. Inventory: Shifting the Look
They stole a coat from a thrift store rack,
Stitched with echoes and shadows and tact.
A pocket held grief. A button held sleep.
The collar was silence folded three layers deep.
Brooch of regret? Clipped on with pride.
Gloves stitched from dreams they let die outside.
Boots that thudded with post-symbolic weight—
Enough SEPULCHRITUDE to intimidate fate.
IV. The One-Line Training Grounds
A stranger asked, “Hey, how’s your week been?”
The figure exhaled, and leaned back in:
“The sky still owes me an answer.”
“I fed the clock and buried the receipt.”
“This smile is just teeth doing damage control.”
They never repeated the same line twice.
And soon, small talk became a heist.
V. The Silence Shaped Like a Weapon
Not a glare. Not a scoff.
Just a pause you could hang your regrets off.
They stared down compliments like loaded dice,
And left parties through walls carved of ice.
A simple nod became a reckoning.
Laughter died before it could echo.
The power of not replying
Was now a blade drawn slow.
VI. The Private Page
In candlelight drawn from doubt and dusk,
They penned a letter in funeral husk:
“To the lighthouse that never was—
I named every wave after you.
You still didn’t show.”
Sealed it with wax. Buried it in a drawer.
A secret they’d never need to weaponize—
Because it already was.
VII. The Theme Song of Collapse
They walked with the sound of dead air breathing,
Their footsteps aligned with Godspeed, you’re leaving.
Every room slowed to grayscale time,
As their aura hummed a fading rhyme:
A jazz tune played through broken glass,
A dirge dressed in sepia mass.
People whispered, “Was that… a soundtrack?”
But none remembered the melody.
VIII. The Overpass of Refusal
Someone tagged “I ♥ A-Pug” on the wall of their work.
They looked once.
Tilted their head.
And punched the metaphor in the snout
to assert dominance.
Then walked away.
That was the moment the SEPULCHRITUDE clicked.
IX. Boss Battle: The Final Balance
Their IMAGINATION rose like a cathedral in flames.
Their SEPULCHRITUDE stood like the ash that remained.
Two stats. One form. A perfected glitch.
They could now speak truth or curse with a twitch.
The balance wasn’t symmetry.
It was sovereignty.
It was the right to choose what tone to carry
and leave the rest unsaid.
X. Epilogue: The Window Left Open
Someone once asked,
“What are you?”
They replied, without turning:
“The part of the myth that never resolved.
The page that folded back on itself.
A sigh mistaken for closure.”
And just like that—
They vanished,
boots echoing,
window wide,
untranslated,
unsaved,
untouched
by the need to be anything
other than true.
XI. Endgame Stats:
IMAGINATION: MAXED
SEPULCHRITUDE: PERFECTLY CALIBRATED
AURA: [NOIR / STORM / VELVET REDACTED]
STATUS: Myth Adjacent
CURRENT LOCATION: Unknown (possibly Portland)
[END]
A silly, silly thing I wrote while reminiscing on Problem Sleuth--the third MS Paint Adventure
