mebbe
Oh my God you actually have a signature on your signatureIt was great reading all of this! Looking forward for the next updates
You're really good at writing, Samrux. Keep it up, you've got talent!
Wait, WAIT! was the 413 a random number or an intended reference?
Seeing as how he's a moderator in the Homestuck social forum, intended reference.
I have long since surrendered to the routine that I have set out for myself. The corpses, having watched them until I tired, never showed any behavior to be worth of noting. They are still insane, and still suffering, and still moaning, and still in the uncanny valley between humanity and bestiality. I find no worth in watching over them anymore; they have bored what water was left in my body out of me.
Reading books, cleaning, exercising, drawing maps, writing poems, gazing at candles, reading more books. Reading every single book. Reading them again. Not sleeping. Not getting a drop to drink. Listening to the moans of the living dead. Piling the objects I find, same as my stress piles up. It is infuriating; there is no thing left to do, no activity to perform, no ideas to write down. Life like this is not fulfilling; I would be happier to be trapped in an actual prison for the rest of my life, surrounded by my own waste, if only that would mean to be alive and human. This worthless hole of death; have I already exhausted every possible way to describe it? Are the writings detailing the living, tortured dead, the walls collaged in blood, floors covered in flesh, halls caved in debris, not been enough to portray the suffering and utter despair I am going through while trapped in here? Surely not, because my torment is not something that can be understood, and I will forever preach that no being should ever have to endure such a thing. And yet here I am, and here they are.
But I don’t want to part ways from my still rational mind. I want to survive, but every second I fight a force straying me from any purpose or meaning. I beg God to not let me turn into them. I haven’t lost faith. Water can heal it all.
The forces in parted control over me are to fear; I can’t bring myself to explore all of this place, as something always makes me hesitate, taking me back, turning me around. I’m just ranting on, as I try to record my own survival. Was there ever anything of value to say? My notes have always been brief, and of them there are not that many. And yet, my few words are but prophets of doom that foretell my own eventual fall. I can’t take it anymore. My handwriting has gotten worse and worse.
I have attempted to keep track of time, but I have failed, try and struggle as I might. Just as inexplicably as other forces inside this dungeon, my measurements never match, even with the sunray coming from above to tell and hint. It’s taunting me. How many months has it been? Several seasons; 4, or 5? Maybe that’s too much, maybe that's too less; I don’t know.
God, you have already taken too long. Please, end this misery. For all of us. /
At least we know that he eventually got to start making Terraria avatars
I have not been in the right status and mood to write, for who knows how long. I just sit every day, all day. I might just let it be, until someone finds this 
ed up place, dares to descend, and stumbles upon me. I doubt, though, that anyone would somehow be interested to have a chat; not after discovering the gruesome things there are to see, and surviving them as well. Not after staring at my deformed face. I wonder if there are any sentient beings in the surface, still. , for all I know, the world might be completely destroyed. I don’t have a single clue pointing to intelligent races still existing or not.
I still feel hope that whoever trapped us all in here will return, and lift this horrendous, nightmarish, macabre purge of a spell, if only to let our souls rest. I don’t see much chance elsehow. Even God’s eye might not be able to see this deep down into chaos and ebony.
Living with the screams of the Underworld changes you.
The sunray is warmer than in other seasons for a third time. I’ve used up all my strengths and willpower, and I still can go on through some more pain. But eventually, I won’t be able to take one other second. No training can prepare you for this. Just in case, I say: Goodbye, reader. //
Memories of The Fall
I remember. I was there during the fall: The event that put this building underground, and which made this place cursed. I witnessed as it occurred; memories strike my mind like lightnings trying to reach the ground, and the thunders tailing them are the screams of terror of those now condemned to be down here.
I was at this place before it was destroyed, and I came down with it. I don't know what I was doing inside. Everyone was alive and well, the walls glittered in their ocean blue hue, and through the windows blent the light of dusk. Out of a sudden, a screech made us all tremble. A powerful and deep noise filled us with fear. As the doors to the kingdom outside closed and locked in a burst, we ran in desperation to save our lives. A macabre feeling bloomed from the bottom of our souls, and set root in our spirits. There was darkness, darkness, darkness,
darkness
darkness
darkness
A darkness beyond imaginable.
The innocent victims were screaming in total despair, possessed by a demonic fright, and they were as though they had descended to Hell itself, and their collective voice could rend your ears.
The floor beneath our feet had began to convulsion in an arcane quake. As we fell, and as the light of day became no more, a wave of chaos enslaved the panicking masses. The building had been buried whole, and not smoothly so; the million tons of dirt beneath had to make space for us, and such titanic spectacle had surely never before been witnessed in our history. It must have been as much a calamity outside as it was inside.
By the hour, insanity claimed entire groups one by one, forever clinging to our minds and senses. In days, failed attempts to escape resulted in cave-ins, injury, and fatalities. In weeks, the lack of food and drink did all to us except taking our lives, and the flesh of our now starved and thirsted bodies began to deteriorate. The now savages started hurting themselves and each other, and what before was pandemonium now became the carnage fair of the Devil. I, too, succumbed to ferment, then paranoia, and madness took control over me.
Nobody came to our rescue.
What happened to me thereafter, I’m uncertain of. Months, years, decades passed. I next regained my consciousness in the bottom floors, which were now coated in blood and dirt, and I was now again aware, while the rest were now mangled animals.
It’s been many years since that awakening.
I now am empty.
The voices are my friends. //
