He would have been perfectly happy to stop there, actually, would have been just fine with it if Connie had cut him off with some interjection about that being exactly what she meant and he could have nodded--or not, it didn't really matter--and he could have redirected the conversation to something that left him a little less personally exposed.
But she doesn't, and so he has to keep going, lead this somewhere--ideally somewhere that doesn't involve a long drop and a short stop. Not without a decent punchline. Which is difficult, when usually that is the punchline.
"We were gods--not just quasi-immortal teenagers in pyjamas with powers that most of us had no business having, but deities who had made an entire world, and now lived in it amongst four different forms of sentient life. And that was that. The story pretty much ended there."
....
"Except, obviously, it didn't. We were still living there like that--the gods of that world, the characters of that whole creation mythos... were just, like. Sitting around in our old houses getting depressed or starting TV shows or getting married or dating and breaking up or whatever else kind of absolutely meaningless drivel we could possibly squeeze out of living at all, wringing 'something to do' out of every single day and day after and day after that, like blood from a fucking stone, until I could literally feel reality wearing thin and brittle."
His hands close into fists, then open again, spreading his digits before balling them back up, fingers flexing with the restlessness of remembered frustrations.
"And through the months and years that followed and the inexorable decline as everything and everyone deteriorated and decayed around me, and reality itself degraded ever the fuck further.... it was made increasingly clear to me that I was the only one. No one else felt anything at all."
no subject
But she doesn't, and so he has to keep going, lead this somewhere--ideally somewhere that doesn't involve a long drop and a short stop. Not without a decent punchline. Which is difficult, when usually that is the punchline.
"We were gods--not just quasi-immortal teenagers in pyjamas with powers that most of us had no business having, but deities who had made an entire world, and now lived in it amongst four different forms of sentient life. And that was that. The story pretty much ended there."
....
"Except, obviously, it didn't. We were still living there like that--the gods of that world, the characters of that whole creation mythos... were just, like. Sitting around in our old houses getting depressed or starting TV shows or getting married or dating and breaking up or whatever else kind of absolutely meaningless drivel we could possibly squeeze out of living at all, wringing 'something to do' out of every single day and day after and day after that, like blood from a fucking stone, until I could literally feel reality wearing thin and brittle."
His hands close into fists, then open again, spreading his digits before balling them back up, fingers flexing with the restlessness of remembered frustrations.
"And through the months and years that followed and the inexorable decline as everything and everyone deteriorated and decayed around me, and reality itself degraded ever the fuck further.... it was made increasingly clear to me that I was the only one. No one else felt anything at all."