Things fall apart, the center cannot hold. Atlas can't keep up his grip forever.
Maybe he knows that.
But he moves again, to at least silence the horrible storm of memory and bad dreams. Resumes putting the boxes on one side of the room, then the other. If his new companion wants to talk, it's probably best to do it where they can actually be heard. And over the whirlwind of sound and images, he can't.
"It hurts people," he says, matter of fact. "One way or another, people hurt. Or they're afraid. I ... I can't let that happen to anyone."
And maybe there's some kind of personal horror there - people being afraid of him. What is he, if not some broken, battered experiment? Maybe he's made strides, maybe he had a new purpose, but that's still there. Deep down and buried. Isn't it?
no subject
Maybe he knows that.
But he moves again, to at least silence the horrible storm of memory and bad dreams. Resumes putting the boxes on one side of the room, then the other. If his new companion wants to talk, it's probably best to do it where they can actually be heard. And over the whirlwind of sound and images, he can't.
"It hurts people," he says, matter of fact. "One way or another, people hurt. Or they're afraid. I ... I can't let that happen to anyone."
And maybe there's some kind of personal horror there - people being afraid of him. What is he, if not some broken, battered experiment? Maybe he's made strides, maybe he had a new purpose, but that's still there. Deep down and buried. Isn't it?