It is not a beautiful day. It is not an ugly day. I do not view nature in such binary alternatives. It is simply another day on the Island, and my work continues.
My task here is simple, but of such importance it bears repeating: I am to fill this barren wasteland with life, and in a few mortal decades assimilate the inhabitants for Your sustenance. With the two helpful offspring provided to me, my burden is lighter than in ages past, yet by no means do I stand idle. Isabelle’s deceitfully cheerful conditioning has also opened new opportunities, some of which I must admit to occasionally questioning myself, but then that is hardly my place. I do not know everything. Only what I must know to do what I must do. Such has always been the way of things, and such shall it be, and I shall be grateful for it.
The little mouse obscenely named Moose has proven troublesome of late. I have advised Thomas and Timothy to exercise utmost caution when conversing with him. I sense overwhelming power within his fragile form, and little of it has to do with the physical dimension. Blathers has sent a communication to the Hierophants regarding our next steps, but until then, our careful monitoring of the threat continues. I can only urge haste for their trunks, and pray it is not too late.
Caution is key also when the one called the Villager is in question. While I mostly take pride in my control over them, sometimes I feel like I do not hold all the necessary strings. It is not a pleasant feeling. The scriptures talk at length of the abyss, but there is no mention of the enigmatic entity that hounds my existence wherever I am called to govern. I have learned first-hand the terror of gazing into the emptiness in their eyes, and having something gaze back. No amount of bells between us can clear the memory—nothing can. Even in writing this down I suffer gooseflesh. Forgive me for this one weakness, as only You can, if only You can.
There are other strange events afoot. A flightless bird keeps washing on the shore, day after day like a groundhog, talking for hours with the Villager, digging up ancient technology from the scorching sands. Ominous balloons crowd the skies, bearing “gifts” for those foolish enough to unravel them. I have myself witnessed several shooting stars over the past few days, compared to the meager eight during the past millennium. Hushed whispers of a dreamworld around the campfires, gossip of gargantuan shapes crawling along the seafloor… I am slipping. I am slipping.
I am not slipping, Your Eminence.
I know not what I must think, only what I must do. Today is neither a beautiful day nor an ugly one. It is simply another day on the Island, and my work continues.
Yours faithfully, infinitely,
Header picture: promotional picture of the game, https://pbs.twimg.com/media/EROevBcUwAETheK?format=jpg&name=large
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