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Entry tags:
cr chart; entranceway
 | You kept us all from staying with what we'd got Not that much, but to us it was a lot. Blood and bullets, bare hands and battered blades One chance left for you to be unmade In my hands, I hold the sharpened key Life or pride, what's it gonna be? Leave the world, as a man who never was But a monster, clutching desperately to his claws My last fight Is real in my hands this time The jaws of the devil's mouth are wide And there's one tiny jewel of hope inside Give him one last chance, and if he backs out I'll cut it right out of his roaring mouth Medicine giving me all I need In a burst of colour and a burning bleed And we both wanted to accomplish what we must Falling down in the dust, it's the last of us. A circus mirror, what I could have been Is a thankful avoidance, but a messy scene I'm up to my elbows in scarlet prose It's a story of freedom; you were right, I suppose |
| ⊗ TIM WRIGHT ⊗ |
| You'll care only about the darkness and you'll watch it for hours, for days, maybe even for years, trying in vain to believe you're some kind of indispensable, universe-appointed sentinel, as if just by looking you could actually keep it all at bay. |
| Two months after Entry #87 was uploaded to the Marble Hornets YouTube channel, Tim was content to live the rest of his days in silence and solace. - or at least, capable of accepting his role in the dissolution of everything he knew, and willing to never stir that monster's nest again. He still had nightmares, he still lived in fear of what he might inflict on others, still remembered what it felt like to have the deaths of two men, two friends on his hands - but he lived. Barely, he lived. But Wonderland saw fit to uproot him and drop in the middle of another world entirely - one of magic and mirrors, of monsters and video screens, queens and twins and strange, white-out dreams. At first, Tim was content to simply fall into line, and accept whatever this new world would throw at him. The more time he spends in Wonderland, the harder it is to want to leave; at least here, the threat of the shadowy, faceless thing looming across the back of his head is somewhat contained. Grieving murderer, resident arsonist, reluctant secret-keeper, perpetual amnesiac, and compulsive liar, Tim Wright is a man so entrenched in his own layers of self-deception and self-loathing that he makes it almost impossible to see his way out of the problems he himself creates. Above all, he never meant to get attached to anybody. Or maybe he's still lying to himself about that one. |
∴ home | ₪ elsewhere | ♥ friend | 〷 complicated | ∆ mistrust | ✔ trusted | ||
| ✘ hate | ☉ protect | ¿ uncertain | ★ acquaintance | ☍ sorry | ♢ kind | ||
| ⚑ afraid | ϟ dangerous | ⨁ knows | ∅ threat | ⊗ infected | ❱ avoidance |
sans ⊗ undertale
₪ - ♥ - ♢
[artist]
Seventeen seconds and I'm over it
Ready for the disconnect
Putting on a brave face
Trying not to listen
To the voices in the back of my head
But it's all right now
(It's a distant memory baby)
All right now
(You know you should just let it go)
Some feelings have a habit of persisting
Even though you wouldn't let it show
Wearing me out, all this
Hanging around, it just starts
Getting me down 'till I'm just
Looking for an easy way out
Brain-dead from boredom
I'm led to distraction
Scratching the surface of life
Nothing really happens
But it's easy to keep busy
When you tell yourself you're traveling right
Keep on second-guessing
Use my memory like a weapon
On everything I try
There's a sense of camaraderie there that makes Sans easy to talk to. Tim suspects that he's been gradually downward-spiraling over the course of several months since the disappearance of his brother, but he does a good job masking it behind that easy, weary, unshakable grin of his.
Tim's offered an ear, but somehow he doubts that Sans will take him up on that without some prompting. But that's fine; that's his right to it.