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Inspiration was unpredictable, and a notoriously fickle mistress. Authors, artists and other poor souls endlessly yearned for its blessing, its touch, so that through them it would create the next masterpiece that would rock the world. Sometimes it never came, sometimes the conduit was inadequate and the fruits, disappointing. One needed to be careful when they felt that this long-sought muse had finally descended upon them and took them into its embrace, for such a grasp could turn into suffocation, and would not let go until they either produced a work so magnificent that it transcended even the words [i]magnum opus[/i], or their mind shattered under the weight.

Perhaps all of this were just mad ramblings, but Daimyon did truly feel afraid of the latter happening. The gears in his head, which usually consumed inspiration at rapid rates resulting in the poet's prolific career, were now sputtering and screeching under the constantly mounting sensations. He saw himself through his mind's eye wading through a viscid swamp in an ever-thickening fog, chasing the sun in a vain attempt to find a way out of this suffering. Whenever he snapped back to the real world, he had to realise again and again that it was not at all better. He wished to completely tune out, just this once, but he could not go against his long-established, almost subconscious nature. Like a stray cat who had wandered onto the bus highway because it was excited by the noise, the curiosity of his imagination was insatiable.

Thus, he watched and listened to everything and tried to process the unfolding events despite his failing mental faculties. The reveal that Davis, who was a figure of righteous retribution just minutes ago, was actually the mastermind of this whole ordeal was so stupefying that Daimyon was inclined to agree with Monokuma: it all seemed like the director of the play got a bit too excited and accidentally dropped the final revelations on the audience after the first few scenes. It made no sense artistically—or in any other way, for that matter—and Davis did little to explain before leaving the stunned crew behind, potentially once and for all.
Barely a minute after that, Lucas was also snatched and everyone was back on the rollercoaster, heading to the next ‘attraction’. Another classic blunder, as far as theatrics were concerned: if these two significant events happened some time apart, it would have made for excellent pacing. Packing everything too tightly together, however, made for quick desensitisation and wasted emotional impact.

Daimyon stopped himself there. Was this his new coping mechanism, ejecting himself from the harsh reality and judging everything from far away, with a critic's eye? Even still, he did not like it. Apathetic, ever objective, almost cynical—this was not him. And he never wanted to become like that.

The site of the execution was another coaster ride which was blatant repetition and a creative failu—[i]no.[/i] Lucas was trapped in there, and while he was a despicable murderer, he was also an Infinite and shared in the group's struggle for the brief time he had been with them. Daimyon grieved for him silently and buried his head in his notebook once the deadly ride set off—his overeager imagination filled out the details just fine. He could however not help but take a glimpse at the investigator once it was all over. His body was untouched, but his face was pale and frozen in a silent scream. 

Death was a major part in many an artist's work, and while it was far from being Daimyon's favourite topic to write about, he did occasionally dwell on it. And yet, despite all the wonders of the mind, no depiction, no flurry of words could come close to describing how it felt seeing death from up close. This realisation also struck the poet as the glimpse became many seconds of unbelieving gazing, and he did not reach for his notebook to attempt putting the sight into words. Earlier, before he was too caught up in his own thoughts to do anything but go with the flow, he had the idea of giving a sort of eulogy in the form of a short poem for the dead, but that thought was also lost in the moment. The off-hand and cold remarks from some of his fellows were but a further twist on the dagger entrenched in his heart, and he left the group shortly after. He heard Davis talk on the many screens on the hospital walls on his way, but barely paid any mind before entering his room and locking the door behind.