The beauty of life, odd yet pleasant.

What would he paint now, to speak as he wished? Edgar speaks, his voice flat once more. "It most certainly is. Knowing what you are to paint does one thing, but when you cannot make your own statements on the world as you see it, it gets grating quickly." He shakes his head.

"One could say that." Edgar's voice comes out dull, annoyed. "I can't tell if they're offering their patronage for any reason other than to say they have a Valden work in their home." A click of his tongue.

Well, Amanda can certainly understand that frustration. Maybe not exactly the lust for power, specifically, but - be it power, or a purpose, or anything else, people always seem to be drawn to something, lured in by promises of something they can't have until they're willing to throw everything else away. She can't understand what it's like to be mesmerized by something like that. It's not like she hasn't tried, though she can't say that the thought appeals to her, either.

"Mmm. Like I said - difficult." she remarks. It's not exactly a grand display of sympathy, and in fact, Amanda appears somewhat unaffected at first, but there's a hint of disdain in her voice - not directed at Edgar, but at the people he talks about. Although, that doesn't mean that Edgar isn't the same as them... She doesn't know him, after all, and in Amanda's experience, everyone has something they're inclined to complain about - even when they should really be appreciating what they have instead.

"But..." And then, an observation, accompanied by a slight upturn of the lips- "You do seem to have some rather strong feelings on the matter, Mr. Valden." -before the ghost of a smile is gone as quickly as it appeared. Amanda's eyes stay fixed on Edgar the whole time, bloodshot and assessing - it seems she can't decide whether those 'strong feelings' are something she should give any weight to or not.

He nods, appearing almost disinterested. Even so, he prefers this near-detachment to the grand gestures he grew up in such close proximity with. Such grand gestures that hide the smaller acts. The smaller ways that people he loved are murdered without weapons.

An observation is raised, and Edgar flinches. It's true. Much truer than he would ever care to admit. His own eyes stay fixed, albeit as if waiting for the next move.

He forces it down at the question brought up. Something else he can answer. "I would be lying if I said inspiration wasn't a part of it, though... yes, I do wish to leave that world behind."

So assistance would be required. He hoped not to talk about the full story, as to why he would be needing to discuss matters. Perhaps someone else experienced in these things would know how to handle and work through them.

Yueyao's teeth click together, discomfort stirring in her mind - yet along with it comes a sense of understanding as well. For someone who's hearing things that aren't there, Edgar seems rather lucid and in-touch with reality, but all sorts of people can suffer from hallucinations - and that doesn't mean he's suffering any less. Now, she feels foolish and a little guilty for assuming he was approaching her as someone who can "see ghosts."

Yueyao always tries not to get too attached to her patients, and Edgar isn't one of them, but... a situation like this can't help but move her to sympathy. Maybe that's only because she understands what it's like, but still. She's also curious about the decision that Edgar feels he has to make, one that he's carefully talking around explaining, though she thinks that pushing him on it wouldn't be the best approach to take.

"Well, I'm not your psychiatrist, so I can't give you any kind of official advice, but..." she starts; sounding just as professional as before, but with a slightly more open countenance nonetheless. "Have you ever sought any kind of treatment before? I take medication to manage my symptoms, but there are other things that can help - like getting more sleep. It all depends on what's causing your hallucinations."

With that in mind, Edgar's on the right track with trying to get help by talking to someone, but he didn't come to see her in an official capacity today. Maybe he's in some kind of hurry?

Finally exhaling, he looks away, grimacing. "Couldn't. My father would know, and I don't trust what he'd do if he found out about that. The few times I ever said anything were not pretty." He shakes his head, a fist tightening into itself as if to keep Edgar from saying anything further, a cutoff.

"More sleep... mm." Does he want to talk about how late he stays up working on his projects some nights? Does he want to talk about how on others, if he isn't up until he physically can't be anymore, he can't sleep? "...I'll have to see about pushing things back a couple hours. Don't think it'll be easy, but if it works..." He has no trust in this happening. But that is not something he wishes to say.

"Hm. I might be changing address in the very near future, and I can imagine that would be a mess on your end. Still, if there are other recommendations, or if we need to make an appointment to discuss more... I'll see what I can do."

He knows this is useful to study and understand, but he can't fully separate himself from the worlds of these displays, from the murmurs growing louder, louder. (They have to be coming from the displays, right? Right. Where else would they be sourced from?)

But it's not at its worst yet, not so bad that he can't conceal it at all. Edgar can attempt to ignore it for now, shut it out like a ringing in his ears. Even so, his tension is betrayed in his movements, the ways his eyes flick between displays, artist, exit.

Then, one image in particular catches his eye. The colors were similarly grim as the rest, yes, but the subject matter grabbed him by the shoulders and would not let go. A sea of people, almost like a cage the way it enclosed the subject. The weapon, the brightest point, seeming to stab forwards, as if it were the only way to cut a path outward. (He knew that feeling.)

There is no body shown, no outcome for this. But it says so much. It speaks a lesson he's learned too well. The murmurs turn to screaming, and Edgar clamps his hands over his ears, grimacing, his breaths picking up pace. (It's too close, too familiar. He can't breathe in these walls of people. And god, one person can become that wall all too quickly, if he moves wrong. Don't give one bit, Edgar. You will be taken in your entirety. You will be hurt again. You know that's what will happen with everyone, right? So don't let them.)

His eyes are wide, as he backs into the corner, slowly lowering his hands to hover in front of his chest protectively. "They most certainly speak to me, I can't deny that." His tone is flat, but the way his fists curl tight suggests he is pointedly ignoring what he had just felt and experienced moments prior.

Edgar's discomfort is plainly apparent - his face, voice and posture all giving him away, making it obvious that Amanda's work has certainly touched some sort of mark. With that said, though, Amanda's expression doesn't change, and she allows him to change the topic without complaint, holding back any comments on his uneasy reaction that they're clearly both aware of.

It's of no offense to her if he's uncomfortable. After all, that feeling is part of what her works are intended to create - though it's not by any means their primary function. On occasion, it almost creates a strange sensation in her - a kind of woeful satisfaction - to see people put off by the nightmares that she puts on display. That twisted imagery once only existed in her mind, confining and capturing her just as much as her prison home did... but now it's all laid out for everyone to see. No longer hidden, unable to be ignored.

"Hmm... it must be difficult, not being able to paint what you want." she notes, a touch of sympathy present in an otherwise dull voice. Though Edgar seems free, perhaps everyone has their own cages in which they live... and Amanda can't say she doesn't empathize with his.

"I don't know much about your circumstances... but that's a rather cruel thing for an artist." On the one hand, she doesn't want to overstep, but on the other, it doesn't particularly matter to her if she does. Most politeness to Amanda is more a matter of avoiding trouble than a genuine care for social graces.

What would he paint now, to speak as he wished? Edgar speaks, his voice flat once more. "It most certainly is. Knowing what you are to paint does one thing, but when you cannot make your own statements on the world as you see it, it gets grating quickly." He shakes his head.

"One could say that." Edgar's voice comes out dull, annoyed. "I can't tell if they're offering their patronage for any reason other than to say they have a Valden work in their home." A click of his tongue.

It takes a moment of Edgar giving a cold stare, crossing his arms, as he debates whether to give the dignity of a response. But eventually, he decides to. Only by responding can he defend himself, only by responding can he get an idea what this other person is thinking.

"It's hard to believe that I got here in the first place, but here we are. And no, I don't know how I ended up here, nor do I know where this would be. Was that way for a while before I ended up here, but I wasn't too concerned with that, only that I was still going. One foot in front of the other." His tone is harsh, his foot tapping impatiently.

Ahhh, looks like this guy's not a fan of Xiao Chi's attitude, judging by that look. Normally, Xiao puts in a bit more effort to come across as likeable, but he hasn't bothered with that as much since everything that happened in Zangling Village, and ending up here... it doesn't really bother him, though.

He does find himself somewhat interested in Edgar's story, though. It sounds like he hadn't cared much where he ended up as long as he'd been able to get away from something... was he running away?

"Hey, that's the spirit. I don't mean to doubt you... maybe you'll last a little longer with that attitude of yours." Xiao comments, lips slightly upturned, yet it's hard to tell if he's being sarcastic or sincere. Maybe the truth lies somewhere in-between. Honestly, he is glad to see that the stranger has some level of fighting spirit, at least.

"But I didn't think anyone could get into this place anymore. At least not easily." And that's the key, isn't it? If someone got in, that must mean there is still a way out. So - as soon as he's done with what he's been trying to accomplish here - maybe that'll be Xiao's ticket back to the real world.

"It's called the Impurity Cavern." Xiao offers the name to Edgar after a moment, deciding he can't leave him completely in the dark. Not that a name means much, but...

"A little longer, huh." Yeah... when the world has stopped holding itself together the way it normally would, when there is only endless chasm up and down and beside... there would be a risk, wouldn't there? "I'm not that stupid."

He blinks at the suggestion that nobody should be able to get in. And yet, the counterexample stands in red cape and boots freshly-dirtied. "...I suppose even in places like this you find surprises."

He nods along, trying to make sense of as much as possible, the ways they are made possible as well as what they can do that other things cannot, the unique challenges that a sculptor or painter would not face. Though he seems to frown at the description of a 'simple drawing', he cannot deny that there are limits to a two-dimensional art. No matter what he does, he cannot truly make a painting move.

"Certainly. I can tell you know your craft."

But Amanda doesn't seem overly interested in Edgar's answer. Less so than than the careful techniques and precise practices used to create art, she's far more interested in the content of her shows - what they mean, and what reactions they create in other people. Emotions can be invoked by the smallest of things... Amanda knows that well. After all, it was only a tiny, ordinary image that changed her whole world for the first time.

"And these displays... do any of them speak to you?" she inquires next, with only a faint curiosity behind it. There are various reactions she usually gets to her art, from the positive to the negative, but a more common reaction is unease - which is no surprise, considering the content. Crime scenes, nightmarish realms... each evoke a disturbing feeling that captivates and repels all at once.

He knows this is useful to study and understand, but he can't fully separate himself from the worlds of these displays, from the murmurs growing louder, louder. (They have to be coming from the displays, right? Right. Where else would they be sourced from?)

But it's not at its worst yet, not so bad that he can't conceal it at all. Edgar can attempt to ignore it for now, shut it out like a ringing in his ears. Even so, his tension is betrayed in his movements, the ways his eyes flick between displays, artist, exit.

Then, one image in particular catches his eye. The colors were similarly grim as the rest, yes, but the subject matter grabbed him by the shoulders and would not let go. A sea of people, almost like a cage the way it enclosed the subject. The weapon, the brightest point, seeming to stab forwards, as if it were the only way to cut a path outward. (He knew that feeling.)

There is no body shown, no outcome for this. But it says so much. It speaks a lesson he's learned too well. The murmurs turn to screaming, and Edgar clamps his hands over his ears, grimacing, his breaths picking up pace. (It's too close, too familiar. He can't breathe in these walls of people. And god, one person can become that wall all too quickly, if he moves wrong. Don't give one bit, Edgar. You will be taken in your entirety. You will be hurt again. You know that's what will happen with everyone, right? So don't let them.)

His eyes are wide, as he backs into the corner, slowly lowering his hands to hover in front of his chest protectively. "They most certainly speak to me, I can't deny that." His tone is flat, but the way his fists curl tight suggests he is pointedly ignoring what he had just felt and experienced moments prior.

"I'm afraid I can't help you there." Xi Yueyao speaks as politely as always, her smile barely even strained as she looks over the man who's requested her assistance. At times like this, she's glad that her training as a psychiatrist has helped perfect her "customer service" appearance - even if on the inside she wants to complain or doesn't care about what's being asked of her at all.

But today's request is... a little strange. It makes her feel strange, too, discomfort stirring in her gut in a way that makes her inclined to judge the perpetrator causing it just a little. What is he talking about, anyway? Yes, Yueyao has always been able to see things... things that others can't. But that's nothing more than a symptom of her schizophrenia, isn't it?

"I'm sorry to say it, but I'm not the expert you think I am. If there was something else you needed, maybe then I could lend a hand...?"

So assistance would be required. He hoped not to talk about the full story, as to why he would be needing to discuss matters. Perhaps someone else experienced in these things would know how to handle and work through them.

"It's not quite traditional art, but..."

Amanda seems like she's quite used to explaining the details of her craft to others. She talks as if she's done it a hundred times before, not sounding disinterested, exactly - but each word is clearly practiced; rehearsed, making it difficult to spot any passion underneath it all.

Difficult, but not impossible. Something has clearly drawn her to the creation of these displays, this interplay of light and shadow that's almost magical in the dreary atmosphere it creates. And somehow, when she talks to Edgar again, this time - her words suddenly seem to lose that practiced edge, becoming less routine and more genuine. Something about him intrigues her more than the others.

"Well, I think it can bring something that a simple drawing cannot. You're a creator yourself, aren't you? Do you have any thoughts?"

He nods along, trying to make sense of as much as possible, the ways they are made possible as well as what they can do that other things cannot, the unique challenges that a sculptor or painter would not face. Though he seems to frown at the description of a 'simple drawing', he cannot deny that there are limits to a two-dimensional art. No matter what he does, he cannot truly make a painting move.