Play this while you read

My art is like the bullet in a slingshot. Or perhaps the arrow of a bow. I am pulling it back as the world watches the tension increase. They look on in abject anticipation, perceiving that I aim at their enemies.

Tension builds as time goes on. I grow older and colder, but my arm never releases the tension. It just keeps going back, and back and back; unbelievably far, but not impossibly far.

Slowly I begin to rotate until I am spinning round and round, spending infinite and absent amounts of time aiming at each and every person. I let them feel their fear, but I never release the tension.

Mine is not a weapon for battle, but a weapon to end all battles without a single shot being fired.

Yes, my father is The White Knight; and I am The White Flag Warrior. I carry my banner with confidence, not pride.

Much like Van Gough, right as I'm coming to a close, I will aim at the starry night and let loose my spirit into the cosmos, leaving you all behind; aghast, afraid, but never alone.