> EE: GU!DE THE DEAD!

You remember when you were worthless in space, an entity made without matter and existing as a purely existential being locked in a square of empty space thousands of light years from where you once lived. You remember when you were a wraith—you remember when you were a ghost, a spook, a mere apparition in the eyes of drug-addled teenagers holding no weight in their lives and serving only to weight them down. But now you’re exalted, if only for a moment, by how much people need you; they don’t know they need you, but you do, because you are Charon in latex and leather, born solemn and alone and made to become a guide. A martyr. You’re Erebus and Cerberus and the cool, calloused hands of the miser who braves the river in silence. Your infallible word lay upon the water like a shallow rowboat and carries the souls of the lost across the turbulent tide.

Man, you’re a fuckin’ godsend, and you sometimes wish you were shallow enough to demand respect for your virtues, however vague.

Prospit rises toward you from the depths of the cosmos and opens its pearly gates to you—you, who twists viciously through grand towers and blurs like a holographic projection gone awry. You consider this as you spiral downward toward the two people lost in their own seek for relief; that is all you are, isn’t it? You’re just light and sound refracting through a stubborn medium.

For somethnig devoid of anything, space is difficult to permeate.

You don’t spend a lot of time searching for your new subjects, because they’re not terribly difficult for you to locate. Much to your own surprise, you skip the theatrics typically associated with your encounters and touch down right before Terezi and John. You stick out here like a sore thumb, but you barely acknowledge it; instead, you rub the scar along your collar and watch them both carefully.

You’re here for now, but you’re not here enough.

EE: ! KNOW WHERE YOU MUST GO,
EE: !F YOU’RE W!LL!NG TO FOLLOW.