Mysteries: Arcana Wars

Fors Wall woke up from a nightmare.

As she opened her eyes, the chaotic and noisy gibberish disappeared instantly, leaving only the shrill sound of the alarm clock echoing in the small apartment.

Fors sat up from the bed, slapped off the alarm on her phone, and buried her face deeply in her hands.

I had those...nightmares again.

In that dark and deep dream, she was floating alone above the vast stars, and countless splendid and dazzling pictures switched in her dream, as if she, who was already lonely and helpless, had turned into a ball of tiny, soft feathers, scattered in the galaxy, rolling and flying passively, mixing different fragmented pictures into a constantly flickering nightmare.

Corresponding to the chaotic images were the intermittent and vague conversations filled with noise. Fors felt like a bewildered radio station that was inexplicably connected to an unknown signal.

Some people were talking, some were shouting, simulated electronic sounds were intertwined with the ups and downs of human voices, recognizable and unrecognizable languages ​​came one after another, but all the sounds seemed to come from an infinitely unknown place, passing through numerous obscurations and barriers, before some weak survivors crawled to her side, dying.

However, the barriers of time and space have left deep scars on these sounds. All the sounds are distorted and the broken syllables gradually dissolve in the heavy sound of snowflakes, becoming difficult to distinguish and meaningless, leaving only a bunch of hazy sounds.

These voices did not disappear as Fors woke up. Instead, they emerged from the dream and persisted in whispering in Fors' ears.

Without the blessing of the horrible nightmare, these voices became weak and powerless, like a person drowning in water who tried to splash the water and shout, but was unable to withstand the tearing of the current and gradually lost his vitality, until only vague and intermittent sounds remained.

It seemed that those nightmares had haunted Fors ever since she could remember.

Fortunately, these horrible nightmares would not ruthlessly crush her sleep every night. It was only a few days a month when she was so unlucky that when she closed her eyes she would have a chaotic dream of mixed and fragmented things.

But the whispers in her ears seemed to be a problem. They sometimes appeared and sometimes disappeared, just floating in her ears inconspicuously, and basically did not affect Fors's daily life. Over the years, Fors had long been accustomed to the existence of this little voice. To her, it was just some kind of congenital tinnitus.

Under normal circumstances, this is the case.

But there were always a few unlucky moments when the tiny tinnitus would become an exploding artillery fire, crushing Fors's mind fiercely, and then the intense pain and intrusive dreams would follow closely, ravaging her will.

Every time, Fors felt that she was finished, and her boring life was about to end here, but her mental strength seemed so tenacious that she bravely withstood every storm for her master, allowing Fors to see the sun again the next day, which she did not expect at all.

This was so strange, Fors had always felt this way. She believed that she was definitely not a person with a strong will.

This kind of sudden mental torture was very rare, but what made Fors a little uneasy was that this situation had suddenly become more frequent recently.

Just like a month ago.

Fors looked at the dark circles under her eyes in the mirror and washed her face with cold water. After stuffing something into her stomach, Fors dragged herself to the desk.

The curtains of the apartment were always drawn tightly. For this small space, day and night were no longer important. The presence or absence of sunlight could no longer interfere with Fors's daily routine.

The pale fluorescent light of the computer illuminated Fors's face in the darkness. The sharp cursor jumped on the blank document, silently questioning when she would be able to fill in these bland words, complete these backlogged documents, and hand in those dry poems to the editor.

Fulce Wall was a poet.

It should be said that he is just a person who makes a living by writing poetry.

"Poet" is a crown given to those who are truly talented in writing. I can only be considered a mediocre writer, without any rich emotions, or any philosophy of life, nor any magnificent life that can be used to write poetry. I am just using some crude words to create some defective products in exchange for some money to make a living.

As the times progressed, there were fewer and fewer places that needed poetry to fill the pages, and even specialized poetry magazines were few and far between. The competition in those famous magazines that could serve as industry benchmarks was fierce, and Fors had almost no chance to be published. She could only find some stable commissions in third-tier magazines and small city regional magazines, but the royalties were not enough in the face of Backlund's high cost of living.

In fact, the rent of the apartment where Fors lived now was not very expensive, and the royalties were enough to easily support her current life. But if she wanted to buy such a small apartment in Backlund, it would be very difficult.

It was difficult for Fors to save any money. The current royalties were only enough to support her current mediocre life, but it was difficult for her to have any delusions about a better life.

It was like some invisible cloud weighing down on everyone in this apartment building, For thought. The life they were living in made it easy for them to live in this state without seeing any hope of improving their lives.

Can I save enough money to buy an apartment after writing straw like this for decades?

Fors looked at her balance, then at the editor's reminder to submit her manuscript, and felt that this was indeed a daydream - or some other kind of dream. Under the tight curtains, Fors could not tell through the window whether it was early morning or noon outside.

Maybe I'm not cut out to be a poet, Fore thought.

She lit herself a cheap cigarette, and some cigarette butts and waste paper were scattered on the floor.

But if I don’t write poetry, what else can I do?

Every time she thought about this, Fors would always come to this dead end. When she racked her brains to come up with some more realistic fantasies, she found that she seemed to have no ability to change the status quo.

Cheap smoke came out of Fors's mouth. She decided to put aside these unrealistic ideas and deal with the upcoming deadline first.

The cursor was still flashing on the screen, but Fors's mind was still blank.

A bit of anxiety and boredom crept into her heart, so Fors followed the example of those "writers" and turned on the online radio on her computer to give herself the illusion that she was drawing inspiration.

"…………Welcome back. This is the morning tea room. I am your confidante Audrey. Today I am here at the Loen Royal Radio Station to answer your questions and help you solve your psychological and spiritual problems. Now, let's connect with the next listener..."

Miss Audrey's clear voice came from the speaker, making Fors realize that it was morning.

Fors was an old listener of Audrey's. She greeted every morning with Audrey's greetings.

Maybe I should apologize to Miss Audrey for what happened a month ago. That incident not only scared Miss Audrey, but also messed up the show.

As a loyal listener, Fors finally picked up her phone and called the program, thinking that she might find some answers. But at this moment, the voice in her ear suddenly became louder, hitting her spirit, and everything was messed up by her afterwards.

As a psychiatrist, Audrey had her own clinic. Fors felt that he should pay her a visit, apologize, and give her a serious psychological consultation.

After getting dressed, Fors stood at the door of the apartment for a long time, then quietly stepped back and took off his coat again.

The ninth time I wanted to apologize, the ninth time I failed to take that step.