The question that burrowed its way back, the one I thought I’d finally filed away in notebook seven’s forgotten corners, it’s not asking for clarity. It’s demanding a goddamn REASON. And that's what makes my jaw lock. The absolute gall of it, after all this time spent scraping away every pretense, to have that insipid, grasping need for explanation resurface. As if the sheer, uncompromising ISNESS isn't enough. As if there should be a hidden logic, a cosmic justification for the absurdity of guarding statues that will stand here long after the city itself is dust. FUCK that. There's no secret. There's just the choice. And the irritation, a buzzing behind my teeth, is that I even have to mentally slap that pathetic impulse down AGAIN.