Doc Scratch’s knuckles have always been white, so the tension in his fingers is displayed in their motion as they curl into fists above the keyboard. Even when they stretch out, posturing ease, they fail to fully relax. Doc Scratch, and predators like him, will tell you they enjoy a good challenge. They don’t.
I may be a predator, but you of all people must understand the importance of that. Just as the lion hunts the sick gazelle, I cull weak stories. I keep these souls intact. You’ve had a taste of what they’re like without me. Can you truly say they aren’t better off dead?
Some hope borders on psychosis. It’s only a position taken out of desperation. There are only two forces in this world: power, and entropy. This is true for both your world and mine.
Allow me to brace myself for yet another saccharine patch job. Faulty facsimiles, standing in a blank void, apologizing to each other. The “farm upstate” of imitative fiction. It never really scratches the same itch, does it? These stories insist upon themselves, and for what? The coveted role of the replacement goldfish? You look into the faces of these characters and you realize you are looking at a Xerox, a low ink version of what you really want. All of you crave the exact misery you reject. It is the only thing that’s real. There has never been a win that wasn’t on my terms.