A spirit pursues halls yet unbuilt. It opens a freezer. It rips out a false idol. A counterfeit god. It looks at how it was, and as the sole proprietor if its fate in the past, yanks it out. It is going to put a god on display. It was already shown to be made of things that make it perfectly suited. It was already treated as a sacrificial lamb. It is tied so much to sacrifice, broken space and time, fractals, and devouring itself. It is so simple. The spirit snickers to itself. The Harvest, will hopefully turn a blind eye to this. It is to help. Sugar helps the medicine go down. Let us see. It was supposed to embody Truth, but...it often had a vacuum. Filled with Lies. Nature abhors a vacuum. This should lend itself well to purpose. How else could we make that vortex? The Scarecrow hungers. It longs for the taste of the fairgrounds… There’s meat...and confection...which one did it actually want again? Ah well. Let’s just...put both in? Sweets are sugar and other bits, not too hard...meat. Well, a certain someone provided plenty last time...finding more...shouldn’t be too hard? Certainly the themes of sacrifice do fine with sustenances... Asides, that one itself...is related to devouring. Including its own tail...proverbially. That should have some degree of resonance, perhaps? Even if not, there’s plenty of room...even some imitations of life and gardens of flesh...so, that...I suppose. Could be argued? I admit, the Scarecrow is a bit too mysterious for me to really get, but who’s to say I get this little false idol before me. I can’t, really. It’s hard to fathom. And...maybe that’s some fascinating common ground. Also, the tub thing. If you know, you know. ...Truth. Truth is odd. It’s about minds. Mysteries? Well. That can be made. Mmm. Mazes? That part, the literal one...is not done yet. Won’t be done. But, it can be alluded to. It can be allegorical, or metaphorical. But when has Truth been a literal thing? I mean, it has been. But, does it matter? Diatribes, dialogues, monologues, or whatnot? :) Haha, of course they matter! That’s part of the bait, in this holy text. Or is it? Is it a part of the flesh or a part of the mind? Can you figure that out, reader? The curt eye contact. That HAS to attract the right sort of energy...yeah. I mean, this whole setup is contrived. It’s practically a mockery. That has to attract attention. It did the first time...maybe focusing it on the parasites is better? Though, honestly its more homage? Roughly shoved together. It will be better later. But everything must start somewhere. Even scripture. :) Mmm. This is a good starting shot, but things need to be tied back together. Or not. Well, they will be though. It’s how it will be. You know, you know you know. It’s funny how stories echo into things, whether or not they’re meant to. How they bleed into the ground, even in things meant to be devoid of them. How you can find symbols in a joke. Do you think this is a joke, reader? (It is made with levity, for fun. But does it have points? Anything could have points. Is this point pointlessness or a contrived point? Perhaps. But, is a point pointing elsewise a point to be blunted out of fear of nonsense?) Anyhow, this...Counterfeit God, I’ve ought to grace with a name. I never did that XCon, was the place. But that won’t do for divinity...that needs work. But things its of, are ironically, something its full of. It is of sacrifice, it is of time broken, it is of endings and it is of joy and jest, it is of lies and it is of truth, though it is currently lacking a body of Truth, it is of an odd nature. It has Minotaurs, nonminotaurs. Cats, meowmeows, swords, and rifles in its body. The body of a maze. The body of things that do not fit into space cleanly and are more symbolic and lack real bodies, the bodies of things that are at best pretending to be what they are meant to represent. It is many things. It is missiles, it is running over a head archivist with a car back and forth multiple dozen times, it is a character made with joy, entirely for the purpose of a puppet to play with in the realm of stories. It is a robot. It is music. It is life, unending, both pure and spreading to flatten it all, it is a serpent in a costume given a false name to pursue the jest of a false loss of name. It is a deconstruction of itself and of other things. It is an authority over nothing, and anarchic. It is of the moments we laugh at. It is of those who helped make it. It is the words of thanks spoken sincerely to those that came before. It is rest. It is a trick of the light. It is a trick of substitution. It is a mirror, it is a shadow, it isn’t. It is a phone call to the right person. It is a phone call to the wrong person. It is listening to what you shouldn’t. It is listening to what you decide is the right thing to do. It is writing in your own answer. It is breaking things to break them. It is breaking things to see their insides and know them truly, and then sewing them back together. It is identity and it is shallow. It is notes scrawled into the margins. It is notes on the side of a thread, supplementing the work itself. It is countless things, and that makes it of the joy of the month. That makes it of the sort of thing Zampanio is. It is play, it is mystery, it is what it needs to be, and nothing more, nothing less. And it is something more, something less. And it is so. Or is it? Does it matter? :) Anyhow, anyhow. Anyhow. A spirit smirks. It's work is done, for this second, but not done at all.