The dashes are empty. Posts skim the voids keeping bloggers apart, as if grazing the hollow of a cut reed, or say, a plundered inbox. A familiar note is produced. It’s the one Exhalation plays to keep its instrument in tune.
It is Sunday night, and as with all Sundays preceding it, something feels missing from your life. The poster presently eluding you is only the latest sleight of hand in the repetoire of an unseen storyteller, one to engender a sense not of hope, but of despair. His deathly schemes are those less of a prankster than a common murderer. His riddle is Plotting itself. It is a mystery dispersing all together, like a text post, with even one popular blogger reblogging. It is the most diabolical riddle of all.
“So I made it to the end of Act I … I still am not 100% sure what’s going on … I was happy to meet a new character … Rose. Ok, I will go forward.” -Rufio
Yes, you are certain Rufio said that. One hundred percent positive.
You have a feeling it’s going to be a long night.
(via incitatus-ebooks)
