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Your Gods are no different from those of the beasts - eikons, every one. Accept but this, and you will see how Eorzea's faith is bleeding the land dry. Nor is this unknown to your masters, which prompts the question - why do they cling to these false deities? What drives even men of learning - even the great Louisoux to grovel at their feet?

The answer? Your masters lack the strength to do otherwise! For the world of man to mean anything, man must own the world. To this end, he hath fought ever to raise himself through conflict, to grow rich through conquest. And when the dust of battle settles, it is ever the strong who dictate the fate of the weak.

Knowing this, but a single path is open to the impotent ruler - that of false worship. A path which leads to enervation and death. Only a man of power can rightly steer the course of civilization. And in this land of creeping mendacity, that one truth will prove its salvation. (2/2)

Eorzea's unity is forged on falsehoods. Its city-states are built on deceit, and its faith is an instrument of deception. It is naught but a cobweb of lies - to believe in Eorzea is to believe in nothing.

In Eorzea, the beast tribes often summon Gods to fight in their stead. Though your comrades only rarely respond in kind - which is strange, is it not? Are the twelve otherwise "engaged"? I was given to understand they were your protectors. If you truly believe them your guardians, why do you not repeat the trick that served you so well at Carteneau, and call them down? They will answer, so long as you lavish them with crystals and gorge them on aether. (1/2)

I want to raise the straw to different depths and feel something. The ocean is so far but I know what it means to rise from its syrupy dark depths into the still waters above. I want all boba. I want no boba. I want to scoop the bubbles with my straw when the ice-rocks have been washed dry by the tide. “Be sure to shake it.” Never. I want to experience every human emotion in this cup of tea. I am not a coward. I am not a sheep. My tea is still enough for pond-skaters to glide. It will not shake. Live your repetitive nothing. Live in fear of the unknown. Live your fear of change. I am choking on a boba. (2/2)

“Be sure to shake it!” the bubble tea barista tells me but I don’t. I won’t. Why would I? “It mixes the sugar” maybe you want that. Maybe YOU do. To be drinking some homogenous concoction. Uniformly distributed. Each sip the same as the last. Just as sweet. Just as sweet. Just as sweet. All pointless flat indulgence. No personality. No humanity. A time-loop of your own devising, bereft of experience, sanitized of risk. I want my first sip to be teeth-curdlingly sweet. I want the next to be horribly disappointing. I want to hunt. I want to jab my straw into pockets of substance like my ancestors stirring twigs into a bug colony. (1/2)

yoooo i haven't seen you in ages