Mario blinked.His reflection did not.“That’s the odd thing about depression,” Mario reflected, “a human can survive anything, as long as they have a clear end in sight. A purpose. Take that away and they sink like pennies in mire: gently at first and then engulfed without notice by the dark waters of the bog.

What time is it?’‘Whatever time you want it to be,’ she gave him a cheeky wink. ‘Now be honest, did you ask for free will?’‘How did you—?’Amanita joined Mario beneath the covers. The ethereal Threads tethering her wrists phased through the thick wool blankets like sunlight through a windowpane.‘The bird that acknowledges its cage only ever sings of freedom,’ she said dreamily.

Sometimes we must allow our locked-and-tethered inner demon a short glimpse beyond the bars,” thought Mario, “lest we forget the full extent of our virtue. One’s power does not reside in the length of their demon’s claw, but in the strength of its manacle. The unleashed demon is worthless, lest it’s controlled.

gold light burned faintly.From his cosy window seat, Mario was tracing a frost-flower on the windowpane with an unsure finger. Were its perfectly-rendered geometric patterns a product of nature, or were they an artefact of metaphysics? Was the frost-flower to the Masters what a work of Art was to him? Did the Masters of Strings truly control every aspect of reality?The fractal flower slowly melted under Mario’s fingertip.“No work of chance here,” he bitterly thought. “This was by design.

He was no marionette after all, but an autonomous individual in a staged performance; a production carefully arranged and assembled on his discrete behalf.And he, Mario Fantoccio, had been invited on-stage to perform.

I... I had a dream,’ said Mario through a pained expression, ‘that my life was not my-my-my own. That I didn’t create my own destiny. That my fate was predetermined. Amanita, you don’t think—’‘Shush,’ she whispered, placing a finger over his lips, ‘they might hear you...

Like an exploding cannonball, he was blasted out of his body – feet forward, arms clutching at his sides – through a tunnel of cold, midnight sky. Mario’s human instinct told him screaming was appropriate, and yet some other side of him was in transcendental awe.