Anonymous 2012/01/24 (Tue) 11:54 No. 152673 ▼
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You are dead.
And yet, you are not. A body is just a sack of flesh, a straightjacket for the indomitable spirit of Man. Free of your sinew restraints, you soar high, and yet you stay in place, absorbing into yourself the surrounding psychic waves, stray desire spirits and other semi-ectoplasmic filth that clogs the border of life and unlife.
You remember what your long-gone father told you right before his spiritual departure. “Son,” he said, his eyes quickly turning gold, “You and I… we were never human. We were always more… and less.”
You remember that day very well. From the break of dawn, it was raining, as if the nature itself was weeping the tears of never ending sorrow, tears that were moisturizing the dismal streets of the shitty satellite town you grew up in. The rain was heavy, the nearby nuclear power plant was barely visible, and minor traffic accidents were frequent that day. One of them was yours.
You were at the wheel, and you really should have paid more attention. The windshield wipers barely did their job, and you should have waited a bit before rushing to the grocery store like that. But you didn’t wait, and it was only expected that a strange, two-tailed mutant cat that ran across the road would cause you to lose control and smash, at a speed of nearly ten miles an hour, into the ever-unblooming cherry tree at the side of the road.
You cursed, untangled yourself from the blessed seat-belts and reached for your cell, but the battery was dead, and you returned home, only to find your father next to an unlit fireplace, an old family album at his lap.
“Son,” he said, as he never was quite able to remember your name, not since the accident two years ago that involved a visit of a strange multi-tailed fox. “I want to show you something.”
There was deep sorrow in his voice, and you decided to postpone the delivery of the news about the new front fender your car would need. You sat next to him, and he showed you the picture, the oldest picture in the album.
“Well, yeah,” you said. “That’s a postcard with our great-great grandmother Cari, her sister Reni and daughter Cheyenne, at the Japanese-themed masquerade held in our town in 1856.”
“No, son,” your father said slowly, his eyes quickly turning gold. “This is your true grandmother. You and I… we were never human. We were always more… and less.”
And then he crumbled into dust, his spirit took the form of a seven-winged golden phoenix, and he took off to the heavens, to become one with the infinite stars.
But you, you are different. You are not bound by a single, predetermined psychic shape. It is the time of your second birth, and you may choose, yes, choose to be what you want. And so you become
[ ] A titanic, devastating snail.
[ ] A spellbound, undulating floating mushroom.
[ ] A satanic wraithwight, hoarder of severed limbs.
[ ] A youkai sunflower.
[ ] A bitter, world-weary daemon hunchback with a weird ability to understand the needs of women.
[ ] Just a plain, boring human once again. Because the last time, it went so well.