[whether you’re doing what you set out to do in the first place, never bother to even figure out why (or even if) you wanted to do it in the first place? Well, I’m looking at the whole. I’m in the whole. And holy shit, it’s fucked. “You mentioned violence a few pages ago, and yes, that’s exactly it. I was violent towards the text, towards your text. I mutilated it. And violence can be creative, but I don’t think mine was. I was just being petty and immature, and then eventually hijacked the whole thing to make it entirely about me. Me, me, me. That’s what the entire second half of this story has been about. I just can’t resist it, apparently. I’m such a fucking fascinating character that examining every little moping facet of myself is more important than anyone or anything else. “And all my little word games and allusions and theory bullshit are just extensions of that. ‘I’m so important, I’m so interesting.’ Hell, you only have to flip back, like, two pages! That entire thing with God and Socrates and hemlock blah blah blah. Do people want to read that? Doesn’t matter, I want to say it, because I think it’s clever, and everyone else needs to see how clever I am, so it’s goin’ in. I’m so fucking full of myself that I’m overflowing, little miniature versions of my head are gushing out of my ears, and every time I open my mouth, another me comes crawling out of it, like a cicada molting, leaving behind that gross split-open shell, but in this simile, the shell’s alive too, and just keeps making that same awful droning cicada noise, on and on and on. “But here’s the best part. That self-centeredness? It’s compounded with self-loathing. So the more I talk about myself, the more I feel guilty, and that gets me off, which means I need to talk about it more, just to prove how fucking selfish I am, which gives me further reason to hate myself, and so on. Ad infinitum. Ad nauseam. I make myself sick with it, sick of it. I’m sick. And this book’s a testament to that. “I can’t let Jane see this. “That’s the bottom line. This was supposed to be a gift, something about her, but I made it about me. It’s masturbation. And she doesn’t deserve that. She— okay, I’m going to stop talking about myself for one goddamn minute now, okay? Jane deserves a better friend that me. Wait, fuck, there it is, within the first sentence. ‘Me.’ Jane deserves better. She doesn’t deserve to slog through all this bullshit, but if she for some reason, despite my (fuck) best efforts does, then she deserves an apology. Jane, I’m sorry. “There. See, Anna, there’s your genuine connection. And all anyone has to do to find it is dig through scores of pages of obtuse, aggressive, violent text. That little nugget of emotion is trapped somewhere in there. But I’m always trapped inside things too. Inside this story, inside the labyrinth, and now inside this book that you’re holding which is itself inside the story, an infinite recursion of trapped-inside-ness. But most of all, trapped inside my own head. Maybe that’s where this fixation on turning things inside-out comes from, from a desire to escape from myself. But it seems like everywhere I turn, I only run into more of myself. “So is there an element of self-destruction, of Thanatos, in my desire to destroy the book? Maybe. I don’t know. All I’m sure of is that Jane can’t read it. So please, Jeanne. From one author to another. Just chuck it in the river.”] “…Are you guys having a moment, or what?” Jeanne started at Acorn’s voice. “Oh, no. Dirk was just explaining himself to me.” She looked at the pony and the cat, calmly standing next to each other. “So what’s up with you two? Have you come to an agreement?” “In a way,” Minos said. “We’re leaving,” Acorn said bluntly. “You know where we stand on the issue, Jeanne, and arguing more won’t change our minds. Whatever you and Dirk decide should happen to the book, go ahead and do it. Our role here is done.” “Where will you go?” Jeanne Betancourt said quietly. “To find Anna,” Acorn said. “That’s all that matters to me; all that’s ever mattered to me, and you know that. I have no idea how I’ll find her, or even what she’ll be like if I do find her. But I need to be with her. However it goes down, I want to be by her side.” “And I don’t know where I’m going,” said Minos. “Like I said, I’m done here. This world isn’t for me. I’ve played the part long enough, but I’m a cat. I’m not a deity, not a judge, not a king. A cat. Let me be a cat.” With those words, Minos pranced down to the bank of the river. When he reached the edge of that transparent, transcendent, infinitely cold water, he paused for just a moment. Flicked his tail. Lowered his head. And drank. A black cat with white paws stood at the edge of a river. It looked around uncertainly and mewed softly. Something behind it made a noise. It turned around and saw two large creatures nearby. The black cat with white paws arched its back, hissed, and scampered away. “Goodbye, Minos,” Acorn said. He turned to Jeanne Betancourt. “And goodbye, Jeanne.” With that, Acorn took off, galloping through the meadow, searching for the girl he loved. #DetectivePony