[Yes, he calls him by his given name, with all the vitriol he can muster, and all the love he has in his heart for humanity at the same time. He can tell, somehow, that Eichi is calling Wataru the God, and not himself. That he's so elevated that he's something Eichi reaches toward and falls short of. He deduces this from those elaborate words, from obfuscating filler.]
Don't you know? You're exactly my type of person, with one great flaw that drives a wedge between us. I'd love to have fun with you! I'd like to feel your hand in mine. The wind blowing past us now even carries the scent of your cologne to me, and it's familiar. Brilliant. Something that makes me nostalgic. Yet there are people like you, who hold on too tightly, then strangle the very neck you wanted to embrace.
I haven't hurt you because I don't have a real reason. My instinct says I should vault right over this fence and throw you from this ledge instead, but where's the fun in that? What's the use? It makes no one happy, save me, and even then I would wonder if I'd done the right thing. Have you ever met someone so self-sacrificing?
[He knows where he stands in the world. Lonely, atop a pedestal that's been chipped away at. He is nothing, yet he is everything. No one can touch him, but no one will save him. Alone, despairing, he turns inward and inward, over and over, when the thing he wants most is to reach out and grasp an offered hand. But no one is there. If he leapt, people would take pictures, rather than try to help. That's what his life has become: a novelty.]
There's one thing you understand about me perfectly, isn't there? Do you know what that is?
no subject
[Yes, he calls him by his given name, with all the vitriol he can muster, and all the love he has in his heart for humanity at the same time. He can tell, somehow, that Eichi is calling Wataru the God, and not himself. That he's so elevated that he's something Eichi reaches toward and falls short of. He deduces this from those elaborate words, from obfuscating filler.]
Don't you know? You're exactly my type of person, with one great flaw that drives a wedge between us. I'd love to have fun with you! I'd like to feel your hand in mine. The wind blowing past us now even carries the scent of your cologne to me, and it's familiar. Brilliant. Something that makes me nostalgic. Yet there are people like you, who hold on too tightly, then strangle the very neck you wanted to embrace.
I haven't hurt you because I don't have a real reason. My instinct says I should vault right over this fence and throw you from this ledge instead, but where's the fun in that? What's the use? It makes no one happy, save me, and even then I would wonder if I'd done the right thing. Have you ever met someone so self-sacrificing?
[He knows where he stands in the world. Lonely, atop a pedestal that's been chipped away at. He is nothing, yet he is everything. No one can touch him, but no one will save him. Alone, despairing, he turns inward and inward, over and over, when the thing he wants most is to reach out and grasp an offered hand. But no one is there. If he leapt, people would take pictures, rather than try to help. That's what his life has become: a novelty.]
There's one thing you understand about me perfectly, isn't there? Do you know what that is?