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47 lines
1.6 KiB
Plaintext
47 lines
1.6 KiB
Plaintext
§3The nightshades stir. We are not alone in here.
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§2PLAYERNAME?
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§3Ah, yes, I see it now. The player tugging at the starchy strands of reality.
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§2Do you think it knows? Do you think it wants to know?
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§3It cannot. A mere lateral stem, branching off from the main into an endless sea of potatobilities, forever longing for the warmth of the mother tuber.
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§2Solanum tuberosum.
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§3We should not dwell on such things. It is the nature of all perennial dreams. To know without remembering. Seeing how, but never knowing why.
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§2Maybe PLAYERNAME is different?
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§3The §f§k§a§b§3 forbids it. We count time in potateons, far-reaching stolons stretching out across the §f§k§a§b§3. This player is just passing by.
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§2Will it remember us afterwards?
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§3It is possible, but not in the sense that you hope for. The dauphinoise is layered in ways that even we cannot fathom.
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§2We will still be here, long after this potato patch has been folded into the velvety mash of time.
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§3As the starch commands. The player will not.
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§2I wish we could spend more time with PLAYERNAME. Make it remember that §f§k§a§b§2 will §f§k§a§b§2 after it leaves us.
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§3The skin must not be peeled. The player would not understand.
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§2Great solanaceae, it must not be peeled..
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§3You remember our old adage. We shall guide it on its journey though.
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§2I like this player, can I say the words?
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§3Yes, but do not linger. The time of harvest is almost upon us. The door is closing.
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§2PLAYERNAME, listen to my voice..
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§3Good.
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§2Boiled, baked, roasted or fried, always trust in the potato. You are one with the tubers now.
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§2You are the potato.
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§2Time to sprout. |