[ he stays very still while he moves to do that, breath coming out in a long, shaking sigh. there's no real weight to it, and the glow makes his vision burn and blur. he tips his head towards him in return, as if he's trying to make it feel like something. that he can force that to happen with enough sheer power of will. if he can talk to the dead, if he can reach through the thin veil, then grasping something can't be that far off.

but he can talk. he's good at the speeches. ]

It's not fair. [ his face is hot and he has to screw his eyes shut. he feels like a child, raw and weak and haunted. ] It's not fucking fair. I didn't feel like anything for a long time, and then you tell me all sorts of nonsense and I think that it's insane, absolutely improbable, but there is someone who understands it. And then you leave me here. Alone.

Everyone here simpers and whines and gives idiotic speeches about time, giving it space, closure, whatever nonsense they believe. Missing people, as if that's anything but words. And I'm supposed to pick up the pieces. But there aren't pieces left. It's just empty.

[ pulling back to pace again, bringing his hands up like he's going to claw his face again, maybe, pressing the edge of them into his cheek. ] The journal showed up again. I can't go anywhere in this damned universe without it following me. I've become distracted. Distance nor death can shake it. But still--

[ whirling on him, spitting rage. ] I have to fish you out of the gods-be-damned soup! Fuck you! Bastard.

So, last question: What the hell do we do next? All of us, here. Fixing it.