Lo and hold, the mighty world which we dwell and suffer. There’s nothing but sufferers in least in this tale, a fact unfair and cruel, but sadly true. Of course, it is yet to occur, yet I am rest well assured in my reasoning it shall not end well. I ask not for reassurance in this time, but simply an audience. Perhaps then I shall keep my sanity in these wild times in the Moro. It is sunrise now, or sunset. I don’t really know where my mind has been all week, and sleep deprecation only adds to that. Sorry, deprivation. I guess the time of day isn’t all I’ve been getting mixed up. Really, I should pay more attention to what I’m doing or saying. But my attention is dragged elsewhere most of the time. Dragged towards the Moro. I’ve reached the Moro countless times, but it still feels so foreign. Eyes bulging and stomach shuddering, I feel my fist break down the walls of created by the universe one by one. Power flows through my nervous system, but it is not electricity that rips through. Physical being is then torn apart, all except for the mind. I become nothing but wires and a processor for a machine much more complex than any of us dare dream or dread. And it gives you so much. Links are established between every atom in existence, as soon as existence came to be. The Moro breaks you up into these links, giving the ability to severe or sanctify. You become the editor of existence, crafting the world as you see fit. This is what I’ve been doing, trying to get back to Cinda. But I always run out of time before I can bring her back, and I lose my work for a foreign world. An empty world. So here I sit, on my couch unsure what the time is, or what the world contains. I don’t remember the last time I entered, let alone what I changed. All I know is that she isn’t here now with me, so I must have failed. Maybe I need some fresh air. Maybe I need a drink.