Focus

The Get Busy Committee. How fitting.

I know what I must accomplish now. I understand everything, how all these random drops of madness coalesce into a cohesive, viscous liquid, the fashion in which the pieces clatter into place. It's finally beginning to make sense.

Mr. Sage, it's always good to know a friend willing to put his life on the line for another, and also willing to waft in the aroma and the flavor of some really potent liquors (a few potentially deadly, but hey, what's life without a smidgen of risk?). But you probably won't be hearing from me again for a while, and for that I am truly sorry. Tomorrow, the real trial begins.

Because that stupid, giant white lardo made a mistake. A small yet vital error in judgment, a miscalculation in that house where Sage just...just saved my life, and killed the one man throughout all the years I thought I could truly trust. But I'm grateful, honestly. I would not dare try and deceive my viewers into thinking I am some altruistic door mat who only lives to see the boot-heels of others stomp upon my character, my reputation and my pride. I put a good amount of stock into my relationship with Donato, but I'm not an idiot, and didn't act like one in that house that day. I am saddened to see the man who I once knew intimately and once loved closer than the skin coating my muscles pass on, but if the sacrifices required to stop this terror are not made, then I will perish. That isn't my main plan when it comes to dealing with anything - perishing. Perish implies a fluttering attempt at life, a pitiful straining for existence, followed by giving up. Followed by letting go.


This shit won't be let go of until I get down to the core, down to the grimy, dark, tangled mass of roots festering in their own evil juices and hoping to wrap me up with their outstretched tendrils.


I hope you made it home easy, Mr. Sage. Good luck with everything. Hopefully, this won't be the last time we kick ass and chew bubble gum.


Fuck sign-offs.