This is the script I have written, something manipulative like a number of musical guests haunting a soundstage, righteous in their wars, but still taking my stubborn ailments to mean that I am something better then them.
It could be that I am writing this to you from my home, but I believe it to be the haunted cellar of the tavern you frequent regularly. It has been there for 700 years and has not changed its name. This is the place that has been a resting spot for the mighty kings and conquered people. It has survived many uprisings and has never been torn down. The building believes whatever the kind people who created it made it think. They are parts of their own stories. They belong to these thoughts, and I call them to oppose my haunting.
The cellar is made of an office, which I have made my bedroom, and a wine room, that may have once been a dungeon but has many times been made over since. It is in that room that I have my desk set up, this typewriter cracking away and the essence of delusion brings my heart towards the weapon. These words are the weapons, and only with them can we belong to the fauns. These words are the woes of the weapons, those that hurt and maim, along with turbulent houses. These are the houses razed by war. These are the places that haunt me.
I am no longer kind. I am mean and I have a reason to be.
I cannot recall that reason, but I know it to be real. I am going to do things right and that means nobody is going to stand in my way. This is now my war. The right thing to do and the “what I came to” keeps me trapped in this cellar. I know that, but I still want the regretful revenge. These thoughts make me make use of my time, as I still sit and type like a refugee, pausing slowly when people come downstairs to see if anyone is down here. There is a passerby now, but I don’t think he is in your dimension. It seems he is in the next one over from mine.