I was never one to forego a purpose. There is a meaning to life, after all – must be. So hard to find, of course. No matter, once found, it must be latched onto like a lifeboat. It is what I did, devoted myself to my meaning, my purpose.
Art is a purpose, in a way. News are a purpose. I am not going to pretend, however, that it is so ultimate and necessary to my life.
I have found a meaning in others, helping and reminding and guiding. It was my purpose from the day I was born, now I know. Though I may have signed away at a later age, I was always destined for, well, at least something like this. My happiness, I truly believe, comes from the happiness of others. It is only through my actions bringing the well-being of others that I can truly bring forth my purpose.
Meaning, of course, is not a one-time goal. It is not something you achieve easily and then die happily. It is eternal. It encompasses your life. It guides your every step. It follows you throughout, it is something you must adhere to, and something that you do adhere to, without even realizing it. It is the work of destiny that brings forth your decisions. We may be free to create our own, yes, but still we act towards this very purpose.
For one, I am very content with my purpose. I embrace it. I live and love for it.
For another, I am so terribly sorry, dear Rebeka.
Art of London
Letters from the Surface: Part XV
Casing the Remains
By Sir Wensleydale of Hardwick
Fires was a fool to leave me alive. Now I can wreck it’s plans.
I remember what Vaughan said to me. Clarabelle was in love with the Orphanage, because of a Moon-Miser.
The moon-miser… Was my endgame- is my endgame.
I stroll through Spite, and see the remains of an old building. The Orphanage itself.
No one was left alive, but the Special Constables remain alert. Time to be one with the shadows.
A plan forms, in the back of my mind. But for ethics’ sake, I must cash in favors.
The urchins are willing to spread my good name through the Flit. Now I can analyze the Orphanage from all angles, with the help of some escapees.
This opportunity is mine, and mine alone.
An occurrence! Your “Letters from the Surface” quality is now 15!
Casing shows your progress in the venture.
You’ve lost 1* Favors:Urchins(new total 0)
You now have 1*Favors:Criminals
News of Art, Art of News
A Rubbery Lack of Artform
Through an anonymous, trustworthy source, news of the Rubberies living on Flute Street have reached the ears of our Gazette’s reporters. Most important for us, of course, was the art – though what we have found was surprising.
There are, of course, past experiences with Rubberies as artists, albeit under the supervision of a human. They are joyous and yearnful musicians, ecstatic to express themselves, yet in the depths under London, where Flute Street and its residents exist, there is an alarming lack of art.
Truly, despite the beauty of the amber streets, the Rubberies seem to not have any way of expression of their own. A few theories we have are, of course: oppression, lack of imagination, fear.
Further investigation is required, and shall be reported upon.
Ask Mother Goose
Dear Mother Goose,
Is it right to feel this way? Is it not indulgence in itself?
Do not be afraid of your feelings. Examine them further. There is truth to be found among the grain. Indulgence need not be incorrect. Remember your calling.