And here I was thinking this was all a dream.
Fuck.
- Mood:
cranky
[When the mic clicks on, Johnny's voice floods the speakers. He's mumbling something, slightly incoherent, and repetitive. He sounds contemplative, tired, and scared -- the usual for Johnny, really.]
As I wal[ ] inside my mind,
a little girl I once did find.
In [ ] darkness she did wait,
inside her eyes the whole of fate.
She uttered one word under her breath,
to me, one word that echoed [ ]...
I'm in a building with two-thousand floors...and when they all fall down...
Hnnn.
Known Some Call Is Air Am.
Known Some Call Is Air Am...1
Look to the sky, look to yourself and remember: we are only God[ ] echoes and God is Narcissus.
Heart may still be [ ] fire in hearth but I'm suddenly too cold to [ ]nue, and besides, there's no hearth here anywa[ ] and it's the end of [ ]. [ ]sday? Almost noon? And all the buttons on my corduroy coat are gone. I don't know why. I'm sorry [ ]. I don't know what to do.
I don't know [ ] to...
I do[ ] know...
I...
I...
I will tear it to Pisces.
-=/Voice Post=-
[1 OOC: [ ] indicates where Johnny is mumbling too much for whatever part of word there makes it unintelligible. Known Some Call Is Air Am is Johnny sounding out "Non sum qualis eram", Latin for "I am not as I was" -- so if your character knows Latin, feel free to comment.]
- Mood:
indescribable - Music:Poe -- Exploration B
[Johnny apparently just woke up, as he sounds very groggy. Some of his words are rather mumbled, and might take a few re-listens to understand.]
Hmm. Sleep. A curious, evasive enigma. Yet booze and Elena seemed to help. Elena I think you're my night light okay?
...I mean, if Reno won't kill me. It wouldn't do me any good to get killed by...Yeah.
Nightmares, still, in that bizarre half-sleep that you have before after you're not really asleep but before you wake up. The worst sort. So real.
My dear Zampano, what have you lost?
-=/Voice Post=-
The stench of rot, fills my nose, clenches the back of my throat...
A howl...
More like a shriek, or a scream...
Calling...?
I locked the door. I locked the door. I need more locks. There is no such thing as enough locks.
My windows crumble.
I hear it moving. Creeping. Lurking. Waiting.
Waiting.
Waiting.
Always there -- always there -- ... always ...
Scraping against the windows, against the ground, against the walls of my very existence...
The floor disappears.
Yet before I fall, everything that's happening, supposed to happen, was going to happen, yet never happened at all...
And I...
--My dear Zampano, what have you lost...?
----mother...
Why did God create a dual universe? So he might say, "Be not like me. I am alone."
Known some call is air am.
It is dark, and it is damp, and the reality around me shudders and heaves as if breathing, as if alive.
Nothing can stop it.
The house.
The house.
The house.
It is immortal. It is everlasting. It consumed, consumes, is consuming.
Everything.
A paradox of existence, not even supposed to exist, and yet...
I'm here.
I'm here.
In the house. The house.
And Lude's dead...Clara English...Whatever happened to Clara...Thumper...Elena...Reno. Hojo.
Facsimiles.
But why?
A terrible thought could have a terribly long career.
Careening.
Careening.
Closer.
Just out of sight, now -- over your shoulder, beyond the corners of the screen, where I can't see it, where you can't see it -- waiting, waiting, and when I know I should be running, I'm not running, and it's here, it's claws -- or are those fangs...
jugular...
and then...
and then...
I...
- Mood:
anxious
to those who grieve
when thoughts keep drifting
as walls keep shifting
and this great blue world of ours
seems a house of leaves
moments before the wind.
...
I can't sleep.
Not surprised.
- Mood:
sleepy
Anyways. Elena. I thought of a list of some things I'd like next time you're over.
-Candles and/or firewood
-Booze
-Some string and some bells if possible
-Measuring tape. Also, if possible.
I swear I'm forgetting something, now.
...Did anyone else hear that thing though...?
I knew it was here.
Now it is only a matter of time.
- Mood: scared
- Mood: D:
- Music:Poe -- Dear Johnny.
-Name of house is Purgatorium, confirmed ... sort of.
-Some of my delusions hate my other delusions.
-Why can't my imaginary friends just get along?
-The women I think up, are really fine.
-And they bring me tasty sandwiches. And blankets. Although of course, this is all me rationalizing how I likely went out and found these things...But hey. They came with a pretty and smart lady. What sort of guy would complain about that?
-Should've never taken that damn phone call.
- Mood:
thoughtful - Music:Poe -- Hey Pretty
- Mood: oshii--
exhausted...There are strange things in the darkness.
Although I can't say I should be surprised.
The fact that there are computers here, is well, ... crazy ... but, since this place really shouldn't exist in the first place ...
Perhaps conjured up by the house to taunt me?
...There seems to be traces of people. Real or delusion remains to be seen.
In an effort to keep myself calm
Thankfully, I have also found lengths of fabric I can approximate to marking by the inch, and pinning down to the walls and floors.
I wish I had some duck tape.
...Or you know, a gun.
Not that it helped Holloway any.
- Mood:
uncomfortable
2 ...Delusional enough it seems, to imagine multiple responses. Purgatorium. A fitting name for the house I suppose.
3 ...Ah. Denial. I suppose even alcohol induced illusions respond realistically. At least it's not a monster. Although I am fairly sure this is the house...
4 ...It figures my delusions have women in it. I can't deny women, can I? ...
Okay, Lisa. Hi. I'm Johnny.
5 ...I see. Well...I used to be an apprentice at a tattoo parlor.
6...The fact that you all are so insistent that you are not delusions makes me wonder even more, though. Not that it matters anyways--I'm having conversations with figments of my imagination, I'm crazy either way.
No surprise there, however.
7 No. I'm pretty sure you're in my head. Maybe you're right. Some figment of my imagination that's trying to comfort me.
Zampano. He wrote that manuscript. Lude called me up, we went over to the old man's place, and I took it. He was dead, not like it was goin' to do him any good anyways. I read it. It...opened so many windows and doors that I didn't know even existed. The house...Obviously. This place is part of the house. The place shifts, like the house, and yet this is a whole city. This is what must've been at the bottom of the staircase -- or even farther still into that bleak blackness. I mean, who knows what else was down there.
Never mind the fact that it's not supposed to exist. The man was blind, writing a story about a documentary about a house and a family that might have never existed...
Anyways. It got the old man. It got me. Now I'll die here, and some poor sap will find my body in some lousy old hotel room, vomit in my closet, curled up on the bed -- or underneath it -- clinging to the sheets for dear life.
...That really wasn't comforting at all. ...Might as well face the facts though.
8 I wonder what my delusions really mean. I think I'm starting to piece together some idea. Elena, Lisa...All those pretty women. All of them, I think, are women I passed up -- either because I was blind with the hots for Thumper, or too absorbed in the old man's manuscript.
[Error: Irreparable invalid markup ('<s?reno?>') in entry. Owner must fix manually. Raw contents below.]
<sup>1</sup> <font face=courier><font color=black>...The fact that this is appearing on the computer proves that, I am, indeed, delusional. Figures.
<sup>2</sup> ...Delusional enough it seems, to imagine multiple responses. Purgatorium. A fitting name for the <font color=blue>house<font color=black> I suppose.
<sup>3</sup> ...Ah. Denial. I suppose even alcohol induced illusions respond realistically. At least it's not a monster. Although I am fairly sure this is the <font color=blue>house<font color=black>...
<sup>4</sup> ...It figures my delusions have women in it. I can't deny women, can I? ...
Okay, Lisa. Hi. I'm Johnny.
<sup>5</sup> ...I see. Well...I used to be an apprentice at a tattoo parlor. <s>I'm officially crazy. Having a coversation with an obvious delusion. Although I should know that by now.</s>
<sup>6</sup>...The fact that you all are so insistent that you are not delusions makes me wonder even more, though. Not that it matters anyways--I'm having conversations with figments of my imagination, I'm crazy either way.
No surprise there, however.
<sup>7</sup> No. I'm pretty sure you're in my head. Maybe you're right. Some figment of my imagination that's trying to comfort me.
<font color=red><s>In a creepy way</s>.<font color=black>
Zampano. He wrote that manuscript. Lude called me up, we went over to the old man's place, and I took it. He was dead, not like it was goin' to do him any good anyways. I read it. It...opened so many windows and doors that I didn't know even existed. The <font color=blue>house<font color=black>...Obviously. This place is part of the <font color=blue>house<font color=black>. The place shifts, like the <font color=blue>house<font color=black>, and yet this is a whole city. This is what must've been at the bottom of the staircase -- or even farther still into that bleak blackness. I mean, who knows what else was down there.
Never mind the fact that it's not supposed to exist. The man was blind, writing a story about a documentary about a <font color=blue>house<font color=black> and a family that might have never existed...
Anyways. It got the old man. It got me. Now I'll die here, and some poor sap will find my body in some lousy old hotel room, vomit in my closet, curled up on the bed -- or underneath it -- clinging to the sheets for dear life.
...That really wasn't comforting at all. ...Might as well face the facts though.
<sup>8</sup> I wonder what my delusions really mean. I think I'm starting to piece together some idea. Elena, Lisa...All those pretty women. All of them, I think, are women I passed up -- either because I was blind with the hots for Thumper, or too absorbed in the old man's manuscript. <s?Reno? Maybe he's Lude -- after all, he has one of the pretty ladies. Lude always got the ladies.</s> ... Hojo. I think Hojo might even be my brain trying to project a face and personality to the old man. I mean -- he argues every little detail with me. That's exactly what Zampano would do, right? You are your own worst critic -- and how many jokes and ironies did Zampano put in his book? Yes. Hojo. You are Zampano.
(OOC: Date is just to keep it off people's friends' pages.)
<sup>2</sup> ...Delusional enough it seems, to imagine multiple responses. Purgatorium. A fitting name for the <font color=blue>house<font color=black> I suppose.
<sup>3</sup> ...Ah. Denial. I suppose even alcohol induced illusions respond realistically. At least it's not a monster. Although I am fairly sure this is the <font color=blue>house<font color=black>...
<sup>4</sup> ...It figures my delusions have women in it. I can't deny women, can I? ...
Okay, Lisa. Hi. I'm Johnny.
<sup>5</sup> ...I see. Well...I used to be an apprentice at a tattoo parlor. <s>I'm officially crazy. Having a coversation with an obvious delusion. Although I should know that by now.</s>
<sup>6</sup>...The fact that you all are so insistent that you are not delusions makes me wonder even more, though. Not that it matters anyways--I'm having conversations with figments of my imagination, I'm crazy either way.
No surprise there, however.
<sup>7</sup> No. I'm pretty sure you're in my head. Maybe you're right. Some figment of my imagination that's trying to comfort me.
<font color=red><s>In a creepy way</s>.<font color=black>
Zampano. He wrote that manuscript. Lude called me up, we went over to the old man's place, and I took it. He was dead, not like it was goin' to do him any good anyways. I read it. It...opened so many windows and doors that I didn't know even existed. The <font color=blue>house<font color=black>...Obviously. This place is part of the <font color=blue>house<font color=black>. The place shifts, like the <font color=blue>house<font color=black>, and yet this is a whole city. This is what must've been at the bottom of the staircase -- or even farther still into that bleak blackness. I mean, who knows what else was down there.
Never mind the fact that it's not supposed to exist. The man was blind, writing a story about a documentary about a <font color=blue>house<font color=black> and a family that might have never existed...
Anyways. It got the old man. It got me. Now I'll die here, and some poor sap will find my body in some lousy old hotel room, vomit in my closet, curled up on the bed -- or underneath it -- clinging to the sheets for dear life.
...That really wasn't comforting at all. ...Might as well face the facts though.
<sup>8</sup> I wonder what my delusions really mean. I think I'm starting to piece together some idea. Elena, Lisa...All those pretty women. All of them, I think, are women I passed up -- either because I was blind with the hots for Thumper, or too absorbed in the old man's manuscript. <s?Reno? Maybe he's Lude -- after all, he has one of the pretty ladies. Lude always got the ladies.</s> ... Hojo. I think Hojo might even be my brain trying to project a face and personality to the old man. I mean -- he argues every little detail with me. That's exactly what Zampano would do, right? You are your own worst critic -- and how many jokes and ironies did Zampano put in his book? Yes. Hojo. You are Zampano.
(OOC: Date is just to keep it off people's friends' pages.)
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5andahalfminute- Johnny Truant