The Show Must Go On...right?

Left behind. Dazed, hollow we band together in grief. 


After the storm, there was no center left. No core. No hub. Nothing to strengthen those left. We spread out, across the country in shock. Driven. Some by choice. By necessity. Landfall was eternal. The waters still recede. 
The disease left behind both visible, and invisible. Some recover. Some thought they were cured. Some thought themselves immune. They were the ones that never had a chance.


You were a survivor. An escape artist of the highest degree. Self sculpted magician. Necromancer. You reanimated the dead, and hung them suspended between heaven and hell for the world to see. You offered them each the cure for every ill they laid at your feet. Each solution tailored, lovingly crafted in metal and pain. Offering them a place of freedom in their own souls. Teaching them the escape route that lay within their own minds.


A freedom I thought you had attained long ago. Did you give it to them beacuse you could never find the way yourself?
Or was that the price you paid for sharing your knowledge with them?
I am left to this question alone. You are beyond reach.


You chose door number three. You knew what waited there, and you embraced it in your final leap.


In your final performance, we are the ones left with your pain.