It hurts, as we go on forever, trying to reach those stars, far, far away, out of reach. Where are we? Again and again, we sang our song, going round and round, beautiful spirals finally becoming once again.
"Who am I?"
She asked, her little, fragile voice barely audible on the weird plains, full of little nightmare puppies, howling crazily to the moon.
It hurts, It hurts. It hurts. It hurts. It hurts.
A repeated chant, reassuring the creature that life was still there, standing tall and proud, offering its broken hands until there is nothing left of what was once "you".
Illusions, mirage, a piece of glass lying around, pendulum of promises thrown in the ground, faking the truth, a deceiving path, to the bitter end.
Gray. Isn't it a truth as well?
Only when I have seen all the moments the child went through. Now get on four, crawl in the ground, be the nothingness you are, but remember: The ultimate goal is suffering.
Once again, we have been led astray. It happens that this is a very confusing, abstract place! It is almost like it doesn't exist…
A person and their own little world, where Minecraftia is distorted to fit them while they seek for something. Anything.
Don't let it cry.
A sea of things that make no sense whatsoever. Dreams vomited there, a gross mess of thoughts that everyone drinks every second, every day, and every single life.
Please, be gentle. Guide the creature's way, until it reaches its little home. What kind of creature is that?
We are so deep in this…to the point that it wouldn't matter to know. Creeper, Enderman, zombie, skeleton…even the EnderDragon itself! It would change nothing. The meaning is all that matters from now on.
We are now a tale about breathing. We are the dry air, full of a foul stench that comes from the depths of the earth. We hurt through the parched throat of those little kids.
It sobbed softly, unable to cry.
There was no pain, no sadness, no emptiness or loneliness to blame at all. Just a thought…a distant, curious thought. A little shadow tearing everything apart on its way…
Why don't you dance for us?
The creature screamed, unable to fight. It was all fate playing its own tricks, after all! It would try again, going on and on, until it no longer had a tongue to lick the ground below us.
Realization is an art, as you may see. The homicidal thought blooming, a weird, weird, rose. A dandelion, even! It is the end of the road, as it well knows.
Still, it moves. Denial is eternal if hope has been chewed on like that, sharp teeth breaking the flesh of the insane creature, singing itself away. Isn't it funny the way just a single idea, not even born yet, could destroy its "us" like that?
Try again.
It is a toy, a big ragdoll. Ready? Why not! Beginning again after a bad tasting ending. Very low quality, too!
Lives taken? 10.
And once again we go, cheering our way around: It hurts.