my name is john wraithsleep. i am writing this to you in an effort to convey to you the impact your story has had on me. unfortunately, i am but a braindead troglodyte, so you will have to excuse my lack of eloquence.
i am putting in a formal request for this piece of writing to be admitted to the international museum of things that made me weep like a newborn baby upon the realization that birds aren't real. truly, the pain you have brought me in this moment is immeasurable. and similarly, the ecstasy i am experiencing in the aftermath of reading is unparalleled.
i would imply that you are a wizard. that to be capable of crafting such a masterful story is nothing short of black magic. that the way you transport beautiful images into puny lizard brains like mine with naught but words is heretical witchcraft.
but in implying so, i would also be required to admit that i am a godless heathen. a heretic of the highest sort.
i mean, i am, but listen, that's not the point, okay.
to imply that this work of art is anything but a product of hard earned skill and mastery would be an insult to you. and i would much rather hurt my own feelings by attempting to convince myself that birds are real than ever insult you.
having said that, stabbing me in the stomach with a rusty knife made of feelings and anticipation and leaving me to bleed out until you return with bandages in the form of another chapter is, quite frankly, a little rude. but i could never hate you for it.
you are an artisan. a master of the craft. to compare thee to a summer's day would be a gross understatement. you are the sun itself. mwuah. i kiss my fingers at you. molto bene. chef's kiss. thank you for the meal. i love you.
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WraithSleep on Chapter 1 Sun 29 Jan 2023 06:09AM UTC
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