That is the problem as old as time with him, he is always nostalic about a past that never happened, and anxious about an imaginary future. He had coveted a name, a face and a place. He had crafted the face himself and the name came by itself, the place just seemed right. And he was happy for a time, with his new masks and new tricks, and his estoic way of making it all work. But he neglected the colors and the voices, he neglected me, he avoided me.

And it was fine, the fact that he had left me out of the equation, fine by me I mean. He though I was not part of that world, so he just let me go, but there is nowhere else I could go. So he changed and moved on, or so he thought.

Then, the secret club of four-eyed creatures who had let him in just seemed dull, boring, out of place and without a place in his destiny, which he thought he had crafted as well with the masks. But you can never craft such a thing, no matter how much you believe in liberty, in opressive liberty I mean.

So then he realized, and then  looked back and noticed me along with his memories, all disperse, all disected and stuffed. He was nothing like me, even if that had been his goal many years ago. He was a creature he couldn't bare.

And so now he stands there, in the rain, knowing he had thought he was a man in a new face, when in fact he is now but a sobbing child with a broken set of masks.

And yes, just like last year, it was all triggered by the house of free entretainment and stalking. Virtual entretainment, if I may say.

By The Masked penguin