My sweet ones, to you I have sworn the truth, and so I offer it: my head is not in the game. I’m slippin, if I’m honest, and I was not prepared to battle today. Can I just keep listening to hiphop and daydreaming about beautiful girls talking about their Ph.Ds instead?
I wrote you something kinda weird about nightmares and masks. Imagine the little dudes at the end of Majora’s Mask, each of them wearing the mask of one of the bosses, and asking you probing psychological questions. Those little kids fucked me up proper. They’re still in my head, bopping around, asking questions.
We’re all such well-behaved little nightmares,
not one with even a hair out of place,
each one practicing their predator face,
selecting the most perfect mask to wear.
A couple of the little ones get stuck
and tumble down into the humans’ dreams.
They find it’s colder in there than it seems –
and then they think it’s more than just bad luck.
But the ones that make it through are colder.
They wrap themselves up in gears and wires,
make their escape, igniting small fires,
leaving behind a snail’s trail of solder.
It gets to be baseboard, but no higher –
nightmares never grow very much older.