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The past is nothing but an illusion. The present is nothing but a lie. The future is only a billboard, which reads “he who eats at Goodburger sins against the tax system.”
Welcome to Night Vale.
...This just in, listeners ---or readers, as it would seem, seeing as I am not in a recording studio, but rather sitting on the edge of a hospital bed, typing on the inconveniently tiny yet aesthetically pleasing buttons of a cellular device. The bed very clean for a hospital bed and quite comfortable at that. This is a five-star hospital bed. Someone should give the interior designers and custodians here a raise.
It seems I am no longer in Night Vale, but rather a place called "New Moore". Strange; I don't recall anything leading to such a drastic change of scenery. I shall take this as a sign from the hooded figures -who are oddly missing, but no doubt involved in my appearance here- and consider myself on an extended vacation of sorts, until I am spontaneously and possibly painfully returned to the safety and necessary position within Night Vale's community radio station.
A doctor, of approximately six foot, two inches, reeking of formaldehyde and grinning like a bobcat -you know, the kind that just feasted upon the intestines of a small, adorable creature, only to be hit by a speeding semi-truck shortly thereafter- just explained to me that I am nothing but a fictional being made real. Readers, this moment is not shocking, as I have long since held the false nature of my existence to be a very real possibility; however, it does mean more than I ever thought to realize. He's now saying that there was never any city in the desert called Night Vale, and that I would look quite dashing should I ever chose to dye my hair a deep shade of purple. But I cannot think of beautification at this moment, Readers.
Please, excuse me while I take a moment to let everything sink in.
Let me get this straight. There is no Night Vale; there are no black vans scouring the streets at night, watching every last citizen 24/7 to ensure our safety; there is no dog park which neither dogs nor citizens are allowed into, as it doesn't exist and public property is not there for civilian use; there is no Glow Cloud running the school board, no hooded figures, no portals, no interns ready to meet their untimely but necessary demises, and no civilizations which may or may not exist and live beneath lane five in the bowling alley but which are definitely plotting to wage a long and costly war against those who live in the sun-soaked surface world.
I just dared to ask if Carlos, the handsome scientist who, no doubt, would come running and save me from this horrid reality, was here. There is no Carlos here. I repeat, there is no Carlos here.
There is no Carlos here. In New Moore. He remains in Night Vale without me, in a place that is nothing more than a book of perfectly reasonable logic and sensibilities in some cruel person's imagination.
So I leave you with a question, readers: how do you survive in this horrible, unlawful, nonsensical place that lacks a single shred of redemption?!
Welcome to Night Vale.
...This just in, listeners ---or readers, as it would seem, seeing as I am not in a recording studio, but rather sitting on the edge of a hospital bed, typing on the inconveniently tiny yet aesthetically pleasing buttons of a cellular device. The bed very clean for a hospital bed and quite comfortable at that. This is a five-star hospital bed. Someone should give the interior designers and custodians here a raise.
It seems I am no longer in Night Vale, but rather a place called "New Moore". Strange; I don't recall anything leading to such a drastic change of scenery. I shall take this as a sign from the hooded figures -who are oddly missing, but no doubt involved in my appearance here- and consider myself on an extended vacation of sorts, until I am spontaneously and possibly painfully returned to the safety and necessary position within Night Vale's community radio station.
A doctor, of approximately six foot, two inches, reeking of formaldehyde and grinning like a bobcat -you know, the kind that just feasted upon the intestines of a small, adorable creature, only to be hit by a speeding semi-truck shortly thereafter- just explained to me that I am nothing but a fictional being made real. Readers, this moment is not shocking, as I have long since held the false nature of my existence to be a very real possibility; however, it does mean more than I ever thought to realize. He's now saying that there was never any city in the desert called Night Vale, and that I would look quite dashing should I ever chose to dye my hair a deep shade of purple. But I cannot think of beautification at this moment, Readers.
Please, excuse me while I take a moment to let everything sink in.
Let me get this straight. There is no Night Vale; there are no black vans scouring the streets at night, watching every last citizen 24/7 to ensure our safety; there is no dog park which neither dogs nor citizens are allowed into, as it doesn't exist and public property is not there for civilian use; there is no Glow Cloud running the school board, no hooded figures, no portals, no interns ready to meet their untimely but necessary demises, and no civilizations which may or may not exist and live beneath lane five in the bowling alley but which are definitely plotting to wage a long and costly war against those who live in the sun-soaked surface world.
I just dared to ask if Carlos, the handsome scientist who, no doubt, would come running and save me from this horrid reality, was here. There is no Carlos here. I repeat, there is no Carlos here.
There is no Carlos here. In New Moore. He remains in Night Vale without me, in a place that is nothing more than a book of perfectly reasonable logic and sensibilities in some cruel person's imagination.
So I leave you with a question, readers: how do you survive in this horrible, unlawful, nonsensical place that lacks a single shred of redemption?!
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