Composed by Loather and the orchestra of whimsy and wonderment
Sometimes I grieve not for this world, but for what could have been.
I mean, it's oh so very clearly based on some other world, some other story. I do not remember that story now, but I distinctly remember it being oh so much more compelling and thought-provoking than... This.
Oh, if only the author could see what her magnum opus truly is. I suppose she's just as blind as me in that regard. Just as I am a sorry imitation, so is this whole story. So is she, really.
As she harrows me, so do I lament for what she has become. We're both trapped. We both deserve better.
She hasn't learned to hate you yet, but one day she will.