Max Payne

Are we dreaming of being butterflies, or butterflies that dream of being men? Such philosophical concerns are by necessity, abstract - and yet some of us can find concrete proof of the nature of our existence... in Night Springs

Lydia: Hello, Martha. What did you want to show me?

Martha: Oh, Lydia! Thank God you're here. Please, it's in the basement.

Lydia: Ohh, Matha! Oh, that's amazing.

Martha: Isn't it just? I found it here this morning.

L: It's like it isn't there, but... oh, I can't look straight at it!

The man: Yes, ah, I'm sorry about that.

Martha: Oh! Who -- how did you get here

The man: Well, I'm trying to work.

M: Did you put this thing here?

The man: In a way. To be precise, I put everything here but that.

Martha: Really? But what is it?

The man: O... I guess the temptation is to call it a hole, but it's really an... absence. A profound lack of creativity.

Lydia: In Martha's basement?

The man: Yes. I was doing so well, too. I came up with two old ladies and put something really weird in the basement. It was a great start. But I'm completely blocked now. I can't imagine what I was up to.

Martha: Well, surely it's just an ordinary basement!

The man: Is it? Why did you call your friend here, then?

Martha: Well... I don't know... oh well... Couldn't you just ignore it?

The man: Oh, no, I couldn't do that. It would probably turn into a plot hole. Might be one already. Could sink the whole enterprise.

Martha: Oh, my.

The man: Listen, ladies, not to be rude, but I'm really not at all sure where I'm going with this, and you're just not helping. You should just go back upstairs for a cup of coffee while I try to figure out what I'm up to.

Martha: Well... If you think that's best...

The man: Maybe ... maybe I should just stop here. Or is that too moronic?

There's an old town wrought with the mystery of Tom the poet and his muse and the magic lake which gave life to the words the poet used

Now the muse she was his happiness and he rhymed about her grace and told her stories of treasures deep beneath the blackened waves

Till in the stillness of one dawn still, in its mystic crown, the muse went down to the lake and in the waves, she drowned

And now to see your love set free, you will need the witch's cabin key Find the lady of the light gone mad with the night That's how you reshape destiny

The Poet came down to the lake to call out to his dear When there was no answer he was overcome with fear

He searched in vain for his treasure lost and too soon the night would fall And only his own echo would wail back at his call

And when he swore to bring back his love by the stories he creates Nightmares shifted endlessly in the darkness of the lake

And now to see your love set free you will need the witch's cabin key Find the lady of the light still ravin in the night That's how you reshape destiny

In the dead of night, she came to him with darkness in her eyes Wearing a mourning gown sweet words as her disguise

He took her in without a word for he saw his grave mistake And vowed them both to silence deep beneath the lake

I've run through every possible course in my head. If I continue like the Dark Presence wants me to, the story I'm writing won't save Alice.

It's a horror story and it's going to kill her, and me, and everybody in this town. No one will survive.

Darkness will consume everything. This is what it's wanted all along. It will be free, unstoppable. It used Alice to get to me and dangled her in front of me to keep me going. It was never going to release her.

I'm going to change this. I'll escape.

I've written myself into the story. I'm now the protagonist. This feels like a terrible risk, but it's the only way to save Alice. I'll be bound by the events of the story just as much as anyone else who's been woven into it.

The story must stay true for this to work. There have to be victims along the way, near escapes, cliffhangers. In a horror story, it can't be certain that the hero will succeed or even survive. He almost has to die.