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There are not moments, but weeks, between a death and a funeral. But time had become like a wave crashing against a rock - eternal and yet fleeting, all at once. And, like a wave crashing upon a rock - like so many things in this world - it is inevitable, and it repeats.

So those weeks went for me. I got dressed, I baked food, I bathed myself, over and over, barely conscious of what I was doing. By the time I found myself seated in an overdecorated white room in a small, obscure monster chapel, it took me a moment to realize where I was or why.

The photos next to the urn did not hesitate to tell me everything. Photos often lack tact in that way.


Absolutely incredible commission by @dynjir based on my fic they fall right off, about Frisk growing old and passing away. Huge thank you to them!

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“Sometimes fate is like a small sandstorm that keeps changing directions. You change direction but the sandstorm chases you. You turn again, but the storm adjusts. Over and over you play this out, like some ominous dance with death just before dawn. Why? Because this storm isn’t something that blew in from far away, something that has nothing to do with you. This storm is you. Something inside of you. So all you can do is give in to it, step right inside the storm, closing your eyes and plugging up your ears so the sand doesn’t get in, and walk through it, step by step. There’s no sun there, no moon, no direction, no sense of time. Just fine white sand swirling up into the sky like pulverized bones. That’s the kind of sandstorm you need to imagine”.

~~Kafka on the shore.

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