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Literature Text
I've got a problem, I know. And hey, I'm really sorry you had to come to my neighborhood, my home, with your obnoxious yappy dog and obnoxious yappy kids and obnoxious yuppie wife. No, it isn't your fault that I was brought into your life. But now that you're here, well, you know, I've got this problem. This, uh, itch that must be scratched.
I'm very old. You people, when you get old, you get grumpier, usually a whole lot eviler too. You think the world owes you something, you think morality is just a fairy tale the big man used to tell you to keep you in line. Imagine if you could grow as old as I. If you could watch eons pass as I have. Do you believe you'd take any solace in acts of heroism and charity? You're an idiot. You'd think of human life in the terms I do.
So, in a sense, it's you who has the problem. You can't understand me. You can't conceive of the ancient years that have blurred past me. Might as well try to hold a steady conversation with somebody plucked out of Stone Age Vietnam—you'd probably have more common ground. The place I was born, the time I was born, that's something you won't understand and so there's no use trying to understand this hunger of mine.
You tucked in your little girly and your little boy, you gave them their night lights and checked their closets and under their beds. I watched you do it. I was right next to you. And you couldn't understand why your children were so anxious, so desperate to have you stay. It's because they've got that residue that I live for. The stains of souls that have changed vessels or lost their homes forever, clinging to the darkest recesses of their psyche like the tiniest grains of sand to your shoe.
Fuck you! Arrogance is what brought this about, you're just as guilty as I. You told them to hush now and sleep tight, you told them there's no such thing as monsters. You're right in a sense—I'm no monster. I'm no demon, no angel, no soul or djinn or eurynomos. There is no word for me, there hasn't been for a very long time—not since the earliest dawn of your languages.
I wish I could stay to savor the expression on your face when you open the door tomorrow morning, first on the girly and then on the boy. The stains of immortality that clung to your kids for their brief lives may have been invisible and temporary, but the vitality I sprayed across their bedroom walls is clear as day and will never, ever wash off. But I left once my work was done. I had to leave.
I've got a problem, I know. And it's high time I took it to another neighborhood. Another of my homes.
I'm very old. You people, when you get old, you get grumpier, usually a whole lot eviler too. You think the world owes you something, you think morality is just a fairy tale the big man used to tell you to keep you in line. Imagine if you could grow as old as I. If you could watch eons pass as I have. Do you believe you'd take any solace in acts of heroism and charity? You're an idiot. You'd think of human life in the terms I do.
So, in a sense, it's you who has the problem. You can't understand me. You can't conceive of the ancient years that have blurred past me. Might as well try to hold a steady conversation with somebody plucked out of Stone Age Vietnam—you'd probably have more common ground. The place I was born, the time I was born, that's something you won't understand and so there's no use trying to understand this hunger of mine.
You tucked in your little girly and your little boy, you gave them their night lights and checked their closets and under their beds. I watched you do it. I was right next to you. And you couldn't understand why your children were so anxious, so desperate to have you stay. It's because they've got that residue that I live for. The stains of souls that have changed vessels or lost their homes forever, clinging to the darkest recesses of their psyche like the tiniest grains of sand to your shoe.
Fuck you! Arrogance is what brought this about, you're just as guilty as I. You told them to hush now and sleep tight, you told them there's no such thing as monsters. You're right in a sense—I'm no monster. I'm no demon, no angel, no soul or djinn or eurynomos. There is no word for me, there hasn't been for a very long time—not since the earliest dawn of your languages.
I wish I could stay to savor the expression on your face when you open the door tomorrow morning, first on the girly and then on the boy. The stains of immortality that clung to your kids for their brief lives may have been invisible and temporary, but the vitality I sprayed across their bedroom walls is clear as day and will never, ever wash off. But I left once my work was done. I had to leave.
I've got a problem, I know. And it's high time I took it to another neighborhood. Another of my homes.
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I'm not sure what the intention is here. It feels like you are trying to scare your own characters. That is a bit creepy. But its meta-creepy so not creepy. So fail.