#bot2

Everything was connected, either by force or sheer will of destiny alone, and if history repeated itself, it was solely because of something Desmond had understood: what the city had tried to suppress for twenty years, taming its citizens to submission by way of persecution and intimidation, fear-mongering and projected guilt, while blaming the migrants across the wall. It was their innermost, untamed essence. Those who had failed in the past had left a spot open for the ones still to come, and from their fruitless fight, what remained behind was that bristling will to live, a bubbling emotional force made of anger and passion, able to move minds and touch hearts – that audacity to claim: I am allowed to be alive. But a warning as well: do not commit out mistakes. Watch and learn, as Desmond had preached from beyond the grave, wasn’t enough – but the maddened psychiatrist knew it. It was why he had written a third part to his manifesto, apologizing to his greatest victim, a little girl he had tried to protect, and in that protection, sentenced thousands of others to become broken projections of their shattered, ravaged dreams, in a life so subdued the very notion of freedom was perhaps the first thing stolen from their souls.