[Center][Quote=Rivers Cuomo]"I write these stupid words and I love every one[/Quote][/Center]
Hi. I'm Nightrunner. Sometimes I write things. Stupid, stupid things. I should write more of them. So the idea of this page is just to post them. Half of my motivation for doing so is to hyperinflate The Guild with low-quality/high-quantity drivel. The other half is to boost my average number of posts a day. If you have any thoughts on them, post them. If you don't, go read something better.
[Center][H2]Feb 6 2020
Day One[/H2][/Center]

It is said that the truest way to demonstrate that you are pleading is to place your palms skyward. But, if you continue begging for long enough, then eventually the weight of the world will find itself resting in your hands, just as the mist becomes the dew so too the dread that hangs in the air condenses until it runs through your hand as casually as a stream steps upon a canal. Soon enough you’re swimming in it. Somehow sooner still you are drowned in it. The men I used to be are dead and bloated, saturated by the dread.

Upon emerging from the canal that I had carved for myself, I made myself two things: a promise and a simple sandwich. The promise was that I would never taste dread again. I would not find myself in such a sorry state as I had so constantly been in recent times. I would seize opportunity by the throat and force it to breathe in the dread on my behalf. The sandwich was ham and cheese, my favorite. All things considered, it’s fair to say that I deserve it, I’d say.

I had hardly finished placing the bread atop the cheese when I felt the oddest sensation happening upon my intestines. I felt them writhing in pleasure, at once slithering about like snakes and galloping like horses. In spite of my forthcoming jubilation, I felt that something sinister was afoot and so, at once, in a single bite, I’d taken the sandwich into my maw, neither taking the time to chew nor swallow, instead flexing my abs powerfully enough to crush my stomach, predicating a change in pressure so intense that the entire sandwich rappeled into my gut faster than an army ranger.

“So I see I wasn’t quite subtle enough, dearest Arnold,” I garbled hatefully, sounds muffled by the pudding-like trail of bread that had eroded and been abandoned all about my insides. “Very well, then. I should’ve known that you were far too literally and figuratively introspective for such methods to have an effect on you, dear rival.”

“You oughta know by now that it’s not a matter of subtlety, Maleftos! There is no amount nor is there any sort of bullshit that you can send my way that I cannot overcome,” I shouted out at the top of my lungs.

“We’ll see about that. As the Lord of your Inner Demons, many bulls kneel before me, so to speak. And everything of theirs is mine to do with as I please. I’ll be back in fifteen minutes. And we’ll see just how much of my bullshit you can contend with,” I said, biting my tongue several times as I spoke the words. Then, after a moment, I added “You really oughta take better care of our body. You look terrible. It’s like you’re literally trying to kill me off with all the cholesterol and cheese.”