I can slip into his mind,
and he is none the wiser.
He does not sense me, or
he doesn’t care.
I can do more than just
read his thoughts. I can feel, taste and
touch them.
They are rough, bitter
and painful. I want to pull back, but I don’t. I need to know.
Why?
Why did I have to die?
Why did any of the others have to die?
There are more, so many
more than I ever thought.
I dig into his mind, into
his thoughts, his reasons and actions.
Why?
I search deeper. Past the
childhood trauma, and the lonely adolescence.
The world is a game.
To him the world is a
game, and the people in it his toys to play with.
We are not lives to him,
but puppets to be manipulated.
He, like me, is part of
the data stream.
Unlike me, he chose to
enter it.
Unlike me, he still has a
human form.
Unlike me, he is still
alive.
And his game continues.
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