It's late at night. It's late at night. It's late at night. It's late at night. It's late at night. It's late at night. It's late at night. It's late at night. It's late at night. It's- The colors swirl and dance around you. That familiar phrase - "It's late at night." - it rings true, over and over again. You wonder if you will ever wake up. The drums pound with anguish. They are not driven by people, but players. Each of them in tune with the next. There is a roar in the distance, a roar that grows louder and louder. Your head hurts. You feel the pain. You *feel* it. It pounds at you. *It's late at night.*, it says. Each beat of the drum, each throb of your veins, it's immense. You look up. You strain your eyes. It is not easy to see when there's stars in your vision, but, you attempt to anyways. You're on a dirt road, flanked by houses made of paper paneling and paper roofs and flimsy Papier-Mache toys and people. It's all flimsy. It's all patchwork cardboard, strewn together with thread, in a landscape where there is naught but a real thing. Not even you. Then, you see *her*. A wistful, young girl. Her hair is said to be green, perhaps of envy, perhaps of greed, and indeed, it *is* green, but today, there is a different reason for the color. Disgust. She's muttering, raving, into some kind of speaker. You walk closer to get a better listening experience. The ground beneath you is as fake as everything else. It crunches and crackles, the fabric upon cardstock seeming like it would give way at any moment. Finally, you are close enough to listen. She notices you, but doesn't falter. "A-and you're telling me they took it *at face value?*" The speaker crackles to life with a myriad of other voices, 6 of them, to be exact - you feel as though one is missing, but regardless, they all agree, relatively. "The commonfolk, they've been oh so *rowdy*, M. So hostile.", says one. It's a bit on the younger side, but you could tell they're not the only voice in that head. "It is definitely their problem, and not ours.", says another. That one is royal, no doubt. The stranger, clad with green hair, turns off the speaker, and opens her hand, letting it drop to the ground. It's cushioned, somewhat, by the unreal ground, but it wouldn't have broken anyways from the height. "What are we to do, then...?" She curls up into a ball, not really crying, but she's not really happy anyways. You look up. The moon is still out. Still young, even, despite being millions of years old. But, again, it is but hanging by thread. Your shoulders are grabbed. It's her, again, looking you in the eye. You're shocked, but, eased a bit. "I need to talk. Will you listen?" You don't know what to say. You actually *can't* say anything. You're mute, after all. But, you understand that if you left now, she wouldn't be mad. There's no obligation to listen. ... But, but, you stayed. She hugs you. She appreciates an ear to listen on, even in this strange world. "When I first came here,", she starts, "This community was blossoming. It was only 2 thousand members strong. But they were good people, you understand? Really good people. A few bad things here and there, but for a game this old, a community that small, it was perfect. Near perfect." She picks up the receiver on the ground. "Then I had to get myself involved." If she could, she would have thrown it a hundred miles away and never looked back. But she didn't. "I've become too entrenched", she continued. "Too deep. All I wanted was to help a community for my favorite game ever. Now, I don't even know if it's my favorite. I don't even know if I want to be here anymore." She looks at you, then the speaker, then back at you. "It's my fault. I know that. It's what happens when I make communities. I get too involved, my wires, my folds, my veins, my vines, they grow far too deep. It twists things." She grabs some kind of pad of paper from her pocket and puts it in her other hand. "Maybe it's right that The Papers never became the big thing I wanted it to be. I know I wouldn't be able to handle the pressure. I'd crack. I'd ask ten thousand things from my community, and be known worse for it." Again, she hugs you. She appreciates your time. "I think I might leave soon. Might be tomorrow. Might be next year. I don't know. But, if you really think I'm nice to talk to, feel free to send me a message. I don't know."