Sometimes shit happens. Hey, it's not always your day, it's alright. One moment you're riding high, soaring above these mud-riddled plains with the king of mercs by your side, another, you're running far away from the crater he blew himself up in. Y...
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Where there's life, there's joy.
Plural life, not singular. A desolate life void of company can only lead to ruin.
Where there's company, there's laughter.
There are smiles and there are tears of merry. A group by itself can light up the world with a flame far brighter than any sun or star ever could. At night, company shines through the twin moons and breaks the false see-through shell. To live is to share yourself with others, and let others share themselves with you.
Where there's life, there's death.
Many, many deaths. Following the ancient Minoan topos of theatrum mundi we can reduce life to simply the stagework of an actor. Each life comes with a purpose - a play to act out - and ends once the curtains fall and the final cheers begin. Many, many people come on stage. Many, many people heed the curtain call.
To live - is to walk towards death.
To live - is to one day accept the reaper's chopping block and lay your neck bare for her scythe.
To live - is to believe there waits a paradise you're destined to indulge.
To live - is to die.
To leave for once and never again turn your head over a shoulder.
"..."
Strums of a guitar's strings were echoing gently. Something scraped their copper hides over and over.
A stroking hand counted each bump on their rocky surfaces. One by one, plucked and pulled, they fell into formation to form that humming sound. Hallways and corridors carried them on. Metal reverberated and sparks flew. Rhodes Island was never meant to be fixed, it seemed. Doors kept rattling, the walls and ceiling ran hand in hand with unsupervised bundles of loose cables. Operators, bracing for another rallying call from high command, were sitting idly in the cargo bays and counting steel. Growls of impurity sounded far, far in the distance – above the forestheads, above the skylines and mountaintops of Kazdel. Something malicious has been brewing for long.
But Rhodes Island – and Babel – remained veiled in that calming, soothing symphony.
In her own private quarters, Her Majesty Theresa sat on a plastic throne. It was of Yanese make, for times were tough. Her ears swayed away from thoughts regarding the seat's questionable integrity, when the music continued on and on.
