What burns is a hideous quarantine, the encumbrance of isolation as an island, walled off by solid flesh rather than liquid water. Words and visions bubble underneath skin, with only so little that can manage to break through this prison of consciousness. How many of their brethren arise from within only to die, still trapped inside? Absorbed back into this torturous body, unspoken, unexpressed, forgotten by the limited mechanisms of the physical brain. Loneliness in the cold knowledge that no one could meet me here, know me here; loneliness that can't be satiated by simple company from other flesh-walled (but unaware of such) entities.
I want to pour forth. No more of this suspension in space.
Where are you?
That larger stream of consciousness, the fabled universal language.
Manifestation of physical memory in space, even if cyclically devoured by the monster known as kaiba. The loneliness of Warp is something Neiro can neither contain nor pierce through. Even then, she...
Mr. Yuasa, is this something you understand?
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