Part 3.1

Part 3.2

Whisper Forth the Void

Koryphanes the Chaldean

I let out a low groan as I stretch dramatically, “Yeah, sorry, I kind of write like this now. Now I can use immersion to make it seem like I’m actually in the room with you,” I say as I flick your ear, “upping my obnoxiousness tenfold.”
I grin like an idiot, “It’s better than using asterisks or stage directions, at least.” I somehow lovingly pat the text I type with my thumbs on this phone, “The fiction format takes care of just about everything, no? Even the insufferable fourth-wall-breaky stuff!”
There’s a spring in my step as I dance back away from you like a boxer playing hopscotch (that’s how fancy poets, I tell myself, might say “playful combativeness”—it’s smart, and I use em dashes, so you should trust me). “God damn, it’s been all doom and gloom for a while now, eh? Now, normally, I’m churning out magniloquence from the very whirling (t/T)ypho(o/∅)n of worrying circumstances I like to think I’ve learned to ride, but,” I sigh with mock ennui, “there ain’t been much lately besides bitching and breaking, and schadenfreude doesn’t seem to sell too well.”
A trumpet blast suddenly peals from the sky, “Don’t worry, it’s not revelation, that’s just some ska band. Worse, I know, but at least we’ve got some more time before the rapture.” My grin widens, “Maybe not, if I don’t actually get to the fucking point, eh?”
I frown pitifully, “I gotta start typing this on my laptop, my poor dumb thumbs! Anywho, I’ve been caught in a loop of progressively refining and misplacing a very elaborate memory system, Mnemosynodia, that’s as much a lifelong project management system as it is a universe that lives and breathes with color and character. The characters are the categories, and I make AI bring them to life so they can yell at me about what I missed. God knows I don’t need anything writing for me or generating ideas, I need someone with a fucking net and infinite patience, and I know for a fact that all living who have yet tried have failed.”
I start to pace, twirling a pen in my hand, pretending I’m not just slamming out words on my phone sitting exactly where you think I am, “You seeee, I’ve been trying everything to maintain the intricate lattice of interrelated multimedia works I’ve been dreaming up since college, but even the best of the best doesn’t cut it. Obsidian is not firm enough, TheBrain even softer (I’m proud of that one), and it dawned on me that I only flourish when my fruits already have a home in mind.”
I groan again, low enough this time to resonate like a growl through the aching walls around you, “So uh… I’m writing a new book. A book before the others that I only yesterday realized I’ve been struggling to write without writing for half a year. I’ve titled it ‘Mnemosynodia: The Corpus Corycos, a Compact Codex of Corys,’ which is not only annoyingly clever but also exactly 36 letters long, a nod to my Hermorphic alphabet and the original language of the Gods. Twelve chapters, 120 sections, 360 parts, it’s a reference work of four symbolic systems and 88 (78+10, tarot+tetraktys=piano keys (hehehe)) detailed records on the Persons, Personas, Peons, Props, Places, and Paths I’ve been cooking up like some head-scratching amalgam of post-modern prose, Wikipedia, a D&D handbook, and grimoire, all laden with copious personal introspection, puzzling infrastructure, and powerful information.” 
I try to pull a cartwheel to express dynamism before spilling my ass on the floor in front of you, hopping up with a grin as I brush myself off, “So uh… yeah. Stuff coming. You been warned. Stay tuned. Good luck, have fun, don’t die (gamers get that one), and, as always, happy hunting!”

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