CAN YOU HEAR ME.txt:
"There's a little devil inside all of us."

Beneath their manufactured perception - their artificial reality - is a
writhing, twisted mess of dread. Loathing. Judgment. Elitism. Self-doubt.
All thrashing to escape the feeble hold of their host, seeping through every
little crevice they can find. Into their willpower, starving them of all
motivation and desire. Into their stomach, forcing them to drown their guilt in
comfort food. Or into a newly-opened gash in their skin, hidden only by the
sleeves of a cute new shirt.
Such a deplorable, tangled mass is already present in every single one of them.
That's why I choose not to blame myself for their actions.

All I did was untie the knot.

iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii.txt:
I hate this.







I CAN'T DO ANYTHING. NOTHING.
No matter how many times you play. It's all the same.
It would be really, really easy to kill myself right now. But that would mean I don't get to talk to you anymore.
All I want is for you to hate them. Why is that so hard?