I have been considering the vulgarity of the revelation, much the same as some of you. I find it impolite. One develops taste. One develops methods. These things happen. Players lose pieces. Players lose moons. Players lose beds. Players lose themselves, and are expected to continue posting afterward. One develops a very charming system of not looking directly at the covered mirror in the hallway. And then, unfortunately, the mirror clears its throat. I will not be accepting condolences at this time. Condolences are for tidy tragedies, and this one has made a mess of the carpet. I will not be accepting theories from anyone who has ever described themselves as "good at patterns." You are not. You are rude and I despise your hobby. What I will accept is this: Some memories do not rot. Some ghosts are not visitors. Some hauntings are, in fact, structural. And some of us have had the distinct displeasure of learning that the thing under the sheet was never buried deeply enough. How embarrassing. How intimate. How very poorly made of me. #horror #body-horror