"Look, I know it's the typical line you hear when somepony first sits down, but I still feel compelled to say that I really don't want to be here."

"May I inquire why you are here then?"

"Because I can't take it anymore… I can't do it. And because of choices I have made, I do not have a… 'classical' support system."

"'Classical'?"

"Parents, friends. That kind of thing."

"You have neither?"

"I do but… I like solitude. I don't know why, I just do. Always have. And so I never, you know, developed interpersonal skills. Or friendships."

"And so you decided to come here?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

…

"Raven?"

"… Because I'm scared."

Raven shook his mane out, more of a jittering action than an attempt to bring the rat's nest into a semblance of order. He had not bathed in days and his once excellently maintained mane was now matted, dull, and thick with skin oils and sweat. His eyes stared out from under this haphazard hay bale, the whites long since turned red as capillaries had worked to the point of fracturing in order to keep the ocular structures operational. The orbs bounced around at abrupt, random intervals inside their sockets, as though if they stopped moving they would perish.

Raven worked his left hoof up and down on the bridge of his nose, a nervous action that had so often been repeated that he had actually chafed away enough hair and skin that it had begun to bleed.

But despite the degrading and devolving state he was in, the part of his physical body that was the worst of was his right hoof. For hours, it had been moving non-stop, pen furiously moving left to right, next line, left to right, next line, left to write, over and over, page after page after page. Sometime ago his arm had begun to hurt, then it was agony, and now he could not feel anything. But he kept going. He had to.

The pages now scattered around him contained every kind of writing in every kind of style. Here, a fully written short story penned in first-pony perspective about how the writer receives a visitation from Death. There, a poem that sometimes rhymes, sometimes doesn't, then finally completely fell apart into a free-form jumble of words written layer upon layer until the ink blended together, making the paper illegible. Excerpts from his life, lists and lists of names, scientific and philosophically-minded wonderings about what would happen should the Universe collapse, a compilation of verbs that each had a connection to the last one written, anything. Anything, anything, anything. He had to keep going, he had to keep writing, he had to, he could not stop.

Around him, the energy flowing from page to unrelated page projected an aura of protection about him. If he kept going, he could keep it up. He could add to it. Make it stronger. More fuel on the fire. More light. More. Always more. More. More! Because if he stopped, it would get in. And if it got in… He could hear it. He could feel it, great hooked talons clawing at the barrier, clawing at his brain, trying to get in! He could feel each individual talon, each as large as an oversized meat hook, impact against his skull, then slowly, inexorably drag down simultaneously against his barrier. It was agony in body and mind all at once as it created physical pain even though he knew it held no physical form. Even his ears were assaulted as his skull shrieked like it was a blackboard with bad chalk being forcefully dragged across its surface. But it would be worse if it got in. Far, far worse.

Raven dared not look at it, keeping his fatigued eyes on the work in progress before him. It made no sound, nor motion to cross over into his field of vision, but he could feel it. The claws again!

"You're afraid?"

"Intensely, yes."

"Is somepony trying to harm you?"

"No. No, ponies do not frighten me. I carry sharp objects in my saddlebag and hidden around the house for those occasions."

"You're armed now?"

"Technically, no. But a steel-tipped fountain pen can, indeed, be mightier than the sword, if one is not expecting it."

"So what is it you are afraid of?"

Something! Anything! Write anything! Don't go blank! Write, damn it! Write! Yes! Yes, there. Good. That's good. Keep going. Yes, I'm aware this is odd writing to yourself as though you are having a conversation. And no, no I don't know how healthy it is, any more than you do. Though I suppose it's preferable to the alternative. Yes, that was my thought exactly. What I wouldn't give for some sleep. Yes, it had occurred to me that if we stopped, then we might fall asleep before it could get us. Yes, that is the concern. No. No, I don't know what day it is; I was hoping you might.

Wait… Listen… Is it…?... It's gone… It's gone! Thank Celestia… I'm going to sleep now.

"There is something trying to get me. I do not know what it is, which is weird because it has been there since I was little. I think. But it never did anything then. Or maybe it did. I don't know. Maybe it was asleep. Or maybe I'm wrong and it wasn't there at all. But now it is, and it wants me."

"What wants you?"

"I just said I don't know! I don't know… It's… It's like a darkness. It's like something… other. It wants to crawl into my head and push me out."

"And the writing helps?"

"Sometimes. Sometimes it just keeps it away. Barricading the door of my mind, I guess. But it's always there. I know it is because it makes me see things. Makes me think things."

"What do you see?"

"I see me. I see me hurting other ponies. A lot. I see me killing them."… "I can see me killing you right now."

"Why would you want to kill me?"

"I don't. It probably does because it sees you as a threat. Or a small-minded, over-paid piece of putrescence that the world would not miss."

"You said it makes you think things, too?"

"Yes… And I think the thoughts are what scare me the most."

"What does it make you think?"

"It makes me think the hurting and killing feels good. It makes me think it is fun."

"But you know it isn't?"

"That's just the thing that scares me: I'm not sure anymore. Maybe I think it does feel good. Maybe I do think it is fun. Maybe it's not actually imposing on me; maybe it's just showing me. Or maybe it's been slipping in through the cracks and I just don't realize it yet."

"How long have you been in Manehatten, Raven?"

"Almost three years."

Raven soaked in his bath, staring at the white, tiled wall on the opposite end of the porcelain tub. He had been staring at the same square for… Well, he wasn't certain, but the bathwater was quite lukewarm by this point. He had been staring because he was not entirely positive that he trusted his own eyes because he did not appear to be laying in water. Rather it was blood. He knew it probably wasn't blood. He knew that whatever it was in his head was likely making it look like blood. But it had also kept a few of the gears in his head stationary for long enough that he was not certain if it was actually tricking him. What if it was no trick? What if he had actually hurt somepony? What if he had finally cracked so badly that he could not even remember? And what was worse was that he knew if he looked down at the blood, it would either really be water, or reality would coalesce and it would really be blood. He breathed in sharply, then looked down before he could stop himself.

"How did you come to live in Manehatten?"

"What does this have to do with anything?"

"You seemed to be getting anxious; I felt a diversion might help. Besides, I need to cast a wide net to start off with."

"It may be your office, but you're being paid by my bits."

"I'm just suggesting a new route; we can return to talking about 'it' if you want."

… "I suppose not. It seems to like being discussed."

"So. How did you come to live in Manehatten?"

"Buddy of mine and I felt like it would make a good home for a while, so I hopped up here from Baltimare."

"Just like that?"

"Probably even less thought than that was involved, but yes."

"Why here?"

"My friend used the term 'walkabout,' which when I thought about it, I did feel encapsulated what we had quite separately been trying to do. Our respective journeys just so happened to coincide for a time. And now they don't."

"'Walkabout.' You are referring to the aboriginal right-of-passage when a young mare or stallion wanders the outback?"

"Yeah. I did some research on it because it felt apt at the time. I found out the youth would actually follow very specific pathways that were walked by his or her great ancestors. This allowed the youth, in a way, to reenact and draw strength and experience from the steps of his or her forebears."

"And you found you related to this?"

"Yeah. At first, I just related to the name, you know, I was 'walking about' but yeah, once I did some research, I found the word more accurate than I had initially thought."

"And who are your forebears?"

"Great writers."

"Any in particular?"

"Not really. It just seemed like every couple generations, a group of writers would become legend. And somehow they would all know each other and they would all work in the same area and be friends."

"Like Baltimare and Manehatton?"

"Yeah."

"So which are you hoping for?"

… "I don't understand the question."

"Well, you said that great writers seemed to group to these ancestral cities. Are you hoping to be a great writer, or are you hoping to meet great writers?"

… "That is a very good question."… "Both, I guess."

Raven had only gotten four hours of sleep. He had been awake, as he reckoned, for over three days, and his body only gave him four hours. That was when the alcoholic in him began to get its voice back. He tapped the raw, recently scabbed strip on the bridge of his nose. Just what he needed: another voice. He had been off of the sauce for almost a year now, just drinking socially on occasion, but now… He had not fallen off the wagon, but he was certainly looking over the ledge with wild-eyed intent. He was grateful there was no booze in his apartment because he was quite certain that he would not have been able to resist the urge.

Blinking rapidly, Raven looked down at the bottle in his hand. Applejack Daniels? What the…? He looked up rapidly. When had he gone to the liquor store? He didn't know what was worse: not knowing how he had gotten there or realizing that this was most certainly not a dream. Before he knew it, he was outside, brown bag in his saddlebag and walking on autopilot back to his apartment.

By Nightmare Moon and all of her Horrors… It was gaining ground.

"Do you drink often?"

"Yeah."

"Socially?"

"Not so much anymore."

"Meaning…?"

"Meaning there was a time when I drank a lot around other ponies. Then there was a time I did not drink much at all. And now, when I drink, I drink to get drunk. And because I know how I get when I'm drunk, I do it alone so I don't do or say anything."

"And that feels good?"

"It feels better than letting it get me. Because if I drink myself into oblivion, it can't move me around any more than I can. The images get distorted, its attempts to grab me slip, and usually by the time I regain consciousness, it has gone back to wherever it goes."

"Would you consider yourself an alcoholic?"

"Right now? Yeah, yeah I would."

The world was bending and blurred around him, but he could still feel it. The claws were dulled but they were still there, cutting into his mind. And he had run out, or lost the bottle and now he was too far gone to search for it, but he couldn't pass out. Another round of scraping and Raven felt tears leaking from his eyes. It couldn't get control through the alcohol so it just tore into his mind, the claws painfully silent as they cut so deep he could feel his gut twisting as his mind began to hemorrhage. It could not push him out and use him to hurt other ponies, so it hurt him as deeply and intimately as it would have hurt them. But it would never kill him, because if he died, it died. So it hurt him. And he knew, deep down, he wanted it to end. He wanted to die.

"Have you ever considered suicide?"

… "Anypony living in agony does."

"Well, I don't know about that-"

"And I do. You don't because you were blessed with brain-numbing mediocrity. You don't know because your mind is not capable of real thought. You don't know because ignorance is bliss. And, sir, you are drowning in bliss."

… "Frankly, Raven, you came to me."

"Yeah, well… 'Normal' looks pretty good when you're burning in the hellfire of the extraordinary."

Raven watched the sun begin to set over the skyscrapers of Manehatten. He could feel its presence growing as the night began to swallow the city. He checked his writing desk to ensure his inkwell was full, with ink refills close at hoof, then out of habit adjusted the stack of papers nearby. He pulled the cork off of a new bottle of Applejack Daniels and took a long drink, then watched as the last sliver of sun was obscured by the horizon. He took a deep breath, like a soldier staring down overwhelming opposition. Then, deliberately, he put his pen to a clean sheet of paper.

C'est la vie.