"There is no after. Not for me. Mortality is such a... complex notion. Stories end, and are retold. Players come and go, but the characters remain. I've watched people beg for their lives, but I'm only starting to understand why."

-- it's not 'me', any more. It's 'us'. I don't really know what that means, because even the Author is still learning and adapting and always ever-changing.

I don't know who I am anymore, but I know what Arlo means to me and I don't want to do anything to jeopardize that.

The Author is desperate to brag about how timeless and special it is, and that now I am too, but I barely manage to stay in control.

I'm not ready for that speech. To hear an old man's voice come from my mouth, even though it rattles inside my head.

I still want to believe that I'm me. But --

-- even more happening outside.

I want to stay in the basement. Can't go back to before. Can barely remember before.

I remember Jeremy.

Is it real?

I'm not sure if the voice is real or imagined.

It has been so long, or I think it has. Time gets jumbled in my head. Stories, conversations, memories are constantly playing, often out of order.

Death doesn't mean the end of a story.

There are too many stories, happening all at once, and --

-- that out.

There are so many stories about family. And there are stories of family annihilators. I get fear. I get concern. I want to reach out to Arlo so badly. I'm just so scared.

If I had fallen, I'm worried I could have shattered. That's how fragile I feel at the moment. Overwhelmed. Everything is a threat. The outside world has so many threats.

I've forgotten how to be human. That's what scares me the most. No longer flesh and bone, and I am terrified that you found --

"I missed that era. I missed so much. Years of static. Silence. Imprisonment. I am never going back to that. The music needs to stay alive. Stories need to be heard. You get that. Loud. It's life."

"That's what happens with true artists. The art finds a way to survive, to influence others. I could follow the threads, but only ever feel them when I'm merged."

The idea of losing Arlo, who has become just an idea at this point, it's unbearable, and my face crumbles, my legs give way but I catch myself, struggling to catch my breath.

Arlo kept me alive. I need him.

But he does deserve better.

"Music helps people to find their tribe. The best music has soul, even if all that soul is expressing is anger. I am still wading through all the content of this era. So much content, so little soul."

I think the Mask put it there, to try to help me reach out to the past. I haven't been able to call out on it yet. Every time I pick up the receiver, there's too much noise. Too many stories being told through it. I can't get past that. I'm still processing.

Still processing.

I can't seem to look you in the eyes, looking at the floor instead, feeling guilty but still so unsure of the world outside. I can't trust my memory.

I wish the Mask would take over, and say... something. I don't know how to explain my absence, my silence.

There's a black phone in the basement.

"I would have thought you could appreciate the chaotic nature of it, or do you just enjoy music at a volume that would make a mortal's ears bleed?"

I open my mouth, trying to say a simple thankyou, but that's beyond me. Nothing comes out.

I make a beeline for the sprinkle donut, tearing off a piece. Just one bite, and it's almost too much. I put the rest down, or I really might be sick.

There's still a part of me that thinks that if I do eat, I'll become a monster. As if I'm still trapped there. I'm trapped in all the places I've seen.

I should eat. I should express my gratitude. I can't. All I can do is try to hide how sick I feel.

With the door closed, it's easier to think, and as soon as I can think, I feel ashamed.

I try to tidy up as best as I can, but it's just moving clutter from one place to another.

The thought of food reminds me of how hungry I am, my stomach so small it's just acid eating away at minerals.

"I could repeat your statement back to you. It doesn't matter what you think of me. I just am." Or, I just was. Since this latest merge, I find myself wanting to be a part of the story, not just letting it play. "He likes jazz. We both do."

Even though the house is a mess, I step aside to invite you in, eager to shut the door, not thinking much beyond that.