#but I guess picking up fights with others you barely know is an intrinsic part of human nature

[drunk-poets-society]

Kinda blows my mind sometimes when people don’t understand that there really is no wrong way to analyse media.

Everyone looks at things differently, and any personal interpretations are heavily influenced by the self, and one’s own life experiences that have shaped them.

No two people deal with problems the same way. Although a basic understanding of what the author was trying to convey is important, in media of an ambiguous nature it is up for interpretation because such is the nature of ambiguity.

Of course, reading comprehension and background knowledge is very important in literary analyses, which is why media analyses are grouped into distinct sections, that is; a completely neutral perspective, in which one draws the analysis around the stencils of societal values, which may not always be morally correct, but is completely detached from humanity, I.e., existing solely as a concept which is to be applied, much like concepts of mathematics.

And then there’s the reader’s own interpretation which is heavily biased and influenced by personal experiences. Whence one draws parallels with one’s life, and other forms of media consumed, concepts of personal favour, etc.

in this section of literary analysis, there is no wrong interpretation as it draws from personal interests. This is also, the kind of analysis we see most on the internet, or just discussing media with people in real life. It’s tainted heavily with personal biases, which are sometimes believed to be factual by people, sometimes almost to the point of genuine hatred of others that do not agree with them.

Thus we see the phenomena of name-calling and other things. The belief that one’s personal interpretation is the only correct one, and the rest of them are all wrong.

Sometimes the inability to acknowledge the fact that everyone is different, and will thus have different interpretations of media, leads to immense psychological distress, which can simply be avoided by not engaging in debates in an uncivil manner.

That’s why I don’t try to change people’s minds about my favourite pieces of media, my interpretation is my own, and though it might overlap and share many of its points with others, they relate to me in a different way. The nature of humanity is such that each experience is so alarmingly universal yet so painfully unique.

[spvg]

Dark Souls Isn’t Hard

Dark souls isn’t hard. This might seem like a statement trying to get to your nerves, or just dismissing the hardships you face while playing, but it isn’t, or at least I’m not trying to make it sound so. It IS Scary, Daunting, it makes you feel like you’re weak, like you don’t have a chance, but it is not hard per sei, And saying dark souls I could mean any of the games “from software” has made.  Now if the game isn’t hard, why does it seem hard?

First The ambient, the way dark souls looks, sounds and feels is made to put you in a tense mood, from the majestic gothic buildings Anor Londo  (from The first Game) to the broken down shacks of The undead settlement (in Dark Souls 3), the dark humid and slimy corners, the dimly lit cathedrals, the choirs of despair, they’re all built in a way to make you feel that sense of scale, loneliness, of being smaller and intrinsically less powerful than the world around you. Try playing dark souls with different background music, turn all the lights in the room on, or with the windows open on a summer day, with or without headphones.  You’ll understand how setting the mood of the game is half of what makes it feel scary.

Then you have the precise combat See, for instance the diference between facing an enemy you’ve fought one hundred times, versus the first time you meet them. I played Dark souls II twice, the first time I had never played a dark souls game, I knew nothing except “it was hard” and not only I played 100hours and never finished it because I got stuck, I was super careful facing every enemy, everything was a threat, everyone was a force to be reckoned with, I was terrified, that’s how dark souls want’s you to feel.

The second time though? I was blasting through it, I knew the enemies, their patterns, I wasn’t feeling like a weak undead, but more like a capable knight instead, because I had all that previous experience, the game itself was a completely different experience. I knew what to expect and I had learned how to face it. Dark souls is a game about patience and learning (at least as far as mechanics go).

And it actually lends you a lot of help on the way, if you play online there are plenty helpful messages left by your fellow players, phantoms (either player or AI controlled) can be summoned to help, sure playing online can leave you open to invasions by other players, but that is all to maintain a big part of the game’s core fairness. Because it is a fair game, the carefully constructed combat is all about observation, enemy movement tells you all you need to know about how to win, every animation has a wind up, and release fail to see it, rush in, attack blindly and you’ll get punished, analyze, take your time, see the openings, and you’ll be rewarded.

Yes dark souls isn’t a walk in the park, it is challenging, but as something people seem to forget, it is also fair, even tipping the odds in your favor sometimes. (see the famous invincibility frames when rolling for instance).

The level layout can be confusing on purpose to make you feel lost at times, but it’s design is carefully constructed so as with combat, careful observation of your surroundings  will more often than not give you an advantage in the fights ahead, areas are also built in such a way that you’ll find plenty of shortcuts that make it easier to transverse the world, and more often than not there are ways for you to ”cheese” hard enemies if you feel like you really want to hold on to those souls no matter what, specially if you have a primarily ranged class, although you’ll probably pick up plenty throwing items along the way, with witch to cheese, or lure opponents out one at a time if you don’t.

Dark souls isn’t hard, but it assumes that you’ll be mindful of the experience you’re having, and it will challenge you, make you work for the victory, unlike a lot of games out there that will hold your hand every step of the way. Now of course this will brush off players that just want a power trip, or are looking for a more relaxing time but it will and has held a fan base that doesn’t get that many challenging games.

The game will actively try it’s best to trick you, to stress you and yes kill you, but as any player who’s tried it more than once will know, it is not as hard as most sensationalist video/ review/ critics make it out to be,

The phrase dark souls of insert game genre here(which I think we really should stop using) if used, should be more about calculated combat, masterful ambience, and environmental storytelling, than blandly about “I had a hard time killing things” so it is hard.

It’s important to look critically at games beyond first impressions, I feel that with the current need of reviews out in the very day of release, and races to see who gives information first, it is important for us to take our time to experience a game, and give thoughtful opportunities to learning mechanics and themes beyond the appearance.

On a side note I also believe the marketing of the game, mainly in the 1st special edition, “Dark souls Prepare to die edition” does not make justice to the game and feels more like a shot at sales through some kind of gamer credit for beating a difficult game. (I mean yes you should be prepared to die but you should always be prepared for the awesome feeling of winning, and they didn’t call it “Dark souls it will feel great when you win edition”! although I must admit prepare to die fits more with the gloomy ambience of the game)

That said I’m not a great dark souls player, but I’ve had incredibly easy times with some bosses that felt unbelievably hard at first, it is all a question of careful approach, learning and timing, that combined, I guess, would be considered skill at the game.

If you’re doubtful just watch streamers or speed runners of the game, and you’ll see how they know the enemies, their move sets, their phases, (some even do runs with no armor or with bare fists) of course they are the epitome of skill at the game, but even without long extensive play time and attempts at defeating enemies you’ll understand pretty well how the enemies in combat work like the anticipation attacks have warning you when they’re coming, and the way you deal with them it’s just a matter of  using your character’s moves to bypass their’s.

Now if you read this far first thank you for listening to me, and I’d like to add a little something that might not be directly connected to the game being hard or not, but I wanted to give a shout out to the way from software does story, and I’m not talking exclusively about the environmental story telling, (which IS a banner of these games) I’m talking about the purposeful hiding of the full story, or what I like to call “missing piece story telling”.

Not giving the players the full story right away, hiding information or just never even put it in the game in the first place creates this broken, missing, storyline that not only mimics the state of the in game world, (old, faded and forgotten) it also serves to incite players curiosity, to make dark souls a game you take beyond your play session, that keeps dedicated players thinking long after they’ve beaten a boss or they found gear from an NPC.

What the connection between those and the larger events in the world might have been, has led to countless theories and views of the Dark souls lore circling in the web. This is a gift for the very passionate and dedicated fan base they have, for the players who are invested and have spent their time with the game, as an experience and not something just to pass the time.

finally I’ll leave you with a quote from the writer at Ask a game dev that I think represents very well how dark souls fits in our gaming world

“Dark Souls is kind of like the dark chocolate of video games. It’s a little bitter and has a lot of flavor depth, but it isn’t as sweet or easy to eat as the stuff most people are used to. Not everybody likes it, but those who do like it a lot.”

I’d like to give a Special Thanks to my good friend Cornelious who is my go to Dark souls expert and to you for hearing me. Have different ideas, something that I clearly missed, suggestions, write them to me, and we’ll be Speaking of Video Games!

[violetsystems]

#personal

When people wonder how long I’ve spent being ignored down here like everybody else it’s nothing compared to how long I’ve held the same job.  Truly one of the things I’ve been most successful with in proving consistency has been my work ethic.  It helps that it returns financial compensation and benefits not that any of that impresses anyone these days.  I say that work is work a lot and leave it at that.  It is important to note I work in an extremely liberal environment.  I don’t mind being inclusive in fact I think it’s more rewarding in the long run.  You expect that respecting people’s right to be will create an atmosphere that encourages you to do the same.  This is the Utopian vision of liberal America that always has it’s heart in the right place but fumbles upon execution.  Mainly because accepting people in America seems to be largely an egocentric experience.  We the people.  Wait who are we all again really?  It’s true I don’t really feel much in line with extreme politics on either side these days.  I spent years soul searching after making dance music on how to do something more important.  I volunteered for a Korean American Festival for three years back in 2011 through 2013.  That imploded in such a Tarantino-esque way like everything else in my life.  People come together and power struggles emerge out of the vacuum.   Around 2013 I worked with a collective of mostly women from my school in a project called Collective Cleaners.  It was a project about cleaning and the value of human labor.  I learned how to weave rags from old bedsheets.  We did a year long show at Jane Addams Hull House at UIC.  I could go on and on right.   But it seems like I’m telling a joke about my life with no actual punchline.  Like I’m mockumentary in the flesh.  Here I am still out here ambiguous proving myself to some phantom army.  And here I am still not good enough for America staring it in the face.  After all this my life is still a fucking joke to people in the worst and most hurtful way.  It becomes exhausting to remind people you have acted on solutions to these modern problems.  Nobody cares about me and what I do about it year after year.  Trust me I get that part by now.  That’s what it seemed like for awhile.  And then I had the painful realization that the work never stops.  And it seems like I’m all alone doing all the work.  To be truthful a lot of the work and expectations follow me around after I leave my day job.  On my lunch break I had to break up a fight between a white christian woman and a fake monk on Michigan before it happened.  The woman came running down the street making a sign of the cross with her fingers.  I stepped in front of her and calmly asked her what the fuck she was doing.  She ran away in opposite direction.  Where’s my comic book Marvel?  

For all the things I’ve done I’m still just as mistrusted and questionable in the eyes of the social elite.  I’m never quite good enough.  Never quite valid enough to prove I’m just as just viable as a closet misogynist with a six figure salary.  I’ve been questionable for years only to realize that nobody has any answers for me on how to be otherwise without being me.  Other than me.  And so in the end only I really know how successful this has all been.  And only I know when it’s appropriate to stay the course or give up entirely.  I haven’t given up.  That’s self confidence talking.  And sometimes you have to lead yourself forward towards some sort of progress through the hazy chaos.  I spent an entire year answering political calls and surveys out of guilt.  Mostly due to what I would hear from my peers about the intrinsic value of being politically aware and woke in the arts.  When it comes to American politics I do participate at bare minimum in voting.  One robocall asked my political leanings.  I said left.  “So I’ll mark you down as progressive.”  I didn’t know how I felt about it at the time.  Progressive in Illinois is a strange beast.  We elected a billionaire for Governor and a lawyer for Mayor.  At surface level that sounds horrible and I guess the more you dig into Chicago and Illinois politics you’d find the same shit.  You need money in America to have a say in politics regardless of how many free speech arguments you win on the Internet.  You can of course vote and it would be remiss to say I haven’t seen progress in that.  As of January we have recreational Marijuana and abortion legal across the state.  I have seen the drug war up close and personal.  It sounds like I’m a vice news reporter.  I’ve probably nudged up against them too in the field but they pretend I don’t exist.  Maybe that’s a parable of the drug war and the media industrial complex.  Maybe shit was lame.  All I know is through a series of miracles in the democratic process smoking weed in Chicago isn’t as dangerous to your personal freedom as it used to be.  Making friends in public still is.  Welcome to snitchville.  Whereas New York is up close but never personal Chicago is your best friend and your arch enemy at the same time.  Progressive politics signifies that things move on, evolve and change.  I’ve read enough news feeds to understand the Governor made whatever possible by crossing the aisles.  Which can be read as compromise.  That’s government.  I’m a private citizen in America.  Or so one would think.  There’s endless commentary about how people like me don’t do enough.  Americans love to talk all day about privacy and talk can be cheap.  Facing the realities of a growing surveillance state that likes to masquerade as the land of the free is troubling.  So can facing the reality your favorite punk rock festival is using public space for profit in under served neighborhoods.  I’m more concerned about white dad rock masquerading as punk.  But insecure men would rather lash out at the me too movement than rock the boat.  You pick your battles right?  Generally when I’ve been the one to stand up to things it’s been about not moving backwards in terms of progressive beliefs.  I believe in a woman’s right to choose.  I got targeted on the street all summer because of it by Christians who thought it was ok to bring it to my face.  I didn’t get a medal and I sure as fuck didn’t really get a pat on the back.  I still have my secret support systems but I don’t have the luxury any more of hiding from who I am and what I believe.  I often stand by myself and what I believe and suffer for it.  Or worse it gets hijacked, misunderstood, and misrepresented by someone’s interpretation of what I’m trying to say.  And I sit here every Saturday morning wondering if I’ve made any progress in being happy at all.  

After failing so much in everything you get a little tired of falling for the same old tricks.  The personal is the most political you can be and I have years of resistance to draw from.  Nobody ever wants me to be me even after all the passionate posts on the internet about what I believe.  It goes nowhere.  There are people who do understand and people I trust.  But the reality in America is that is few and far between in public space.  The propaganda that we’re all free is largely based on some huge stipulations.  Money is one of them.  I work for a non profit.  You can do the math.  It feels like everything that the Left wanted me to be based on critique is largely ignored unless I have my wallet out.  And even then I’ve been happier being less liberal with my money in places where it isn’t respected.  I guess I could run away to Hong Kong and start over.  The irony of that is pretty funny right now.  I haven’t talked to that side of the family in a while since I’ve been off Facebook.  I haven’t left the country since I came back from China, Korea and Japan by myself since the first summit between Moon Jae-in and the other guy.  I don’t know that I feel very safe leaving the country.  I don’t feel very safe leaving my house these days.  So do I shrivel up and waste away hoping somebody will save me.  What have I done to deserve all this I’m not sure.  I’ve spent over three years clocking in hundreds of miles running around desolate and abandoned areas of Chicago.  What am I really afraid of at this point?  Dying alone and forgotten?  I feel dead inside already every day.  I have no hope any of this will change no matter how much we sit and argue about it.  Nobody does anything.  Nobody is out there with me other than the people close to my heart.  Nobody invites me to a special club other than me at my kitchen table on a Saturday morning.  For all the good I’ve done I’m still the first person to scapegoat as ‘problematic’ after all these years.  And I can’t even profit off it on the internet?  That’s a joke.  If listening to all these criticisms and taking them to heart got me where I am why do we still pay so much attention to Dave Chapelle’s career and for profit opinion?  I’m invisible.  Just like all the victims out there who are invalidated when somebody says they’re over reacting to sexual abuse and harassment.  I think America has enough problems that nobody wants to confront without us having an opinion about any other country’s sovereign dirty laundry.  And this is where I think we can all learn a little something about progress.  I got to where I am by believing in myself and resisting people’s judgements of who I am.  I got there by challenging my own perspective and growing into my own by putting my ideas into practice.  It hasn’t been easy.  It has been largely thankless and a complete mind fuck.  But I haven’t been alone as much as it seems.  People use so many words and get nowhere.  And then people learn how to communicate without ever opening their mouth.  People can say they love you all day long.  I’m always going to be out here showing you just how much it means to me regardless of who sees it and how they feel about it.  In that I err on the side of consistency.  If that makes me a loser I’m happy with the results.  <3 Tim

[allyinthekeyofx]

Fading Light - Part 4 - 3/4

PART ONE  -  Chapters 1-6

PART TWO  -  Chapters 1-6

PART THREE  -  Prologue & Chapters 1-6

PART FOUR  -  Prologue    Chapter one   Chapter two

PART FOUR

CHAPTER THREE

I truthfully don’t know how long I sat with Scully on my bathroom floor and held her as she, in some small way, expelled the demons from within that had quietly plagued her; growing in intensity until they blotted everything else out. It’s always been this way for her I think – that inability to invite anyone else along for the emotional ride – until eventually, the hurt becomes too big for her to deal with alone and she either shuts off completely, or as was the case last night, goes to such extremes that her actions can hardly be reconciled to the person I know her to be.

The last time I remember her falling quite so hard was leading up to the whole memorable Ed Jerse incident, where her own common sense flew out the window and she returned to me with a mark on her skin that was, in some ways, less indelible than the mark he left on her soul because we both know she was lucky to walk away with her life intact.

Back then though, I was too caught up in my own selfish pursuit of the elusive truth that I had simply stopped listening to her. I had stopped noticing just how deeply unhappy she was, how confused, how lost she had become because, if I’m honest, I had started to take her for granted; safe in the knowledge that should she try to walk away from me I had the singular ability to drag her back whether she wanted it or not. She became a part of me and as such, my acknowledgement of her as being a person in her own right became so offhand and dismissive that it was almost non-existent.

And even when I got the call from her that frightening day to meet her at the hospital where she delivered the news to me that she was dying, I still resolutely refused to be the support she so desperately needed, pushing her away as she got sicker and sicker, my own guilt at the situation blotting everything else out; making her struggle for life about me not her. I came to my senses eventually but by then so much had been lost to her that it was almost too late; and as I wept silently and painfully by her bedside as she lay sleeping, the most selfish part of me wished she would wake up just so I could beg for her forgiveness that I had been so fucking absent for so long, that I had abandoned her in every conceivable way to face it alone.

It was why, just a few short months ago that now feels like years, when she eventually told me that her cancer had returned I resolutely decided that things would be different; that I would be different. And even if she can’t remember, I think deep down she knows I did okay; that I was, in some small way, able to make amends to her.

Because it took almost losing her the first time to fully realise what she meant to me. That it wasn’t just a question of partnership or reliance anymore; rather that Scully had woven herself so intrinsically within my pathetic life that there was no longer any question of allowing her to hide from me. That even if she built a thousand walls to keep me out, I would somehow smash through them to find her.

I think last night, even as she clung desperately to me, refusing to really acknowledge me, I felt a subtle shift in her mindset; that even if she couldn’t fully initiate her need for someone, anyone to make things right for her she had at least managed to admit that there was cause. Which was a start I guess; and it gives me hope that she will be alright; that we will be alright.

Eventually she had stilled against me, still refusing to meet my eyes as I gently pulled her to her feet, her head hanging like a snowdrop, emotions laid bare for maybe the first time since I had known her. But I hadn’t pushed her; talking could come later, would come later because I could feel the shame and embarrassment that radiated off her and knowing her as I do, I didn’t need my psychology degree to tell me that those destructive sentiments would just increase in importance in her mind until they made communication so excruciatingly painful for her that she wouldn’t even try.

But she wasn’t there yet and what she really needed right then more than anything was sleep. She was clearly exhausted, used up, incapable of really even attempting to rationalise much beyond the few stilted admissions she had managed to force out, face pressed against my chest as she huddled in my arms on the floor. So I did what she needed me to do at that moment;

Nothing more and nothing less.

I undressed her carefully, almost reverently as she sat compliant and numb  on the bed before me, gently slipping her arms in to one of my soft oxford shirts and buttoning each button while all the time never letting her break contact with me as I reassured her with my eyes, with my touch that it was okay; that finally it was going to be okay. I was rewarded by the tremulous smile that appeared, albeit fleetingly on her beautiful face, a blink- and- you’d- miss- it kind of smile. But it was a start and I would take it. Oh yeah, I would take it.

I think she may well have been asleep before her head hit the pillow. Certainly she didn’t react to the soft kiss I placed on her cheek before I settled myself on the floor, back against the wall, knees drawn up against my chest as I watched over her as she slept.

She awoke finally at around 8am, totally panic stricken as she bolted upright in the bed, eyes wild as she sought to orientate herself. She had drunk so much booze the night before that I had no doubts that her recollections of what had transpired would be, at best a little hazy and, at worst totally fragmented. It was also clear that as she had been sleeping, a headache of mammoth proportions had been manufacturing itself to be ready to greet her full force as she opened her eyes, because her hands immediately flew to the side of her head and she emitted a strangled oath that was so unlike Scully that despite myself, I couldn’t help a brief grin which I quickly smothered as I got closer to her.

‘FUCK’

Oh yeah, hangovers of the magnitude that Scully could expect today pretty much elicited no other response.

I sat on the bed.

‘Morning’

And as her brow furrows in response to the pain and the obvious fact that she had no idea why she is there with me, I take her hand in mine.

“Let me fill in some gaps there for you Agent Scully. Last night you drank roughly enough whiskey to sink the Queen Ann, expelled the contents of your stomach and possibly a piece of your liver in to the depths of my toilet bowl and proceeded to pretty much pass out on my bed. The all-consuming pain and feeling of intense befuddlement, not to mention a rolling sensation of nausea you are currently experiencing are all completely normal and what we generally refer to as a hangover. “

I’m not even remotely surprised by her expression of absolute mortification as colour floods her pale face and I smile at her as I run my other hand down her cheek and under her chin. Partly to reassure her that everything is fine and partly to prevent her from hiding from me as the weight of my words settle upon her.

“Wait here”

I’m only gone a couple of minutes, just long enough to run the water cool through the tap and grab a couple of pills from the kitchen cabinet. I doubt the pills will have that much effect, but I’m guessing any relief from the pounding headache has to be better than none and I am briefly and painfully reminded of all the other headaches I was able to help alleviate for her in the past. No morphine for this one though. Self inflicted headaches are only deserving of over the counter pills unfortunately. But Scully is tough. She will ride it out okay.

And when I get back I’m pleased to see that she is still awake, albeit slumped against the headboard with her hands over her eyes, probably trying to block out the weak sunlight that has managed to filter through the cracks in the closed blind and which is now probably piercing her eyeballs like a thousand needles. But as she hears me get closer she drops her hands away and regards me through eyes that are heavy lidded and slightly bloodshot.

“God Mulder I’m so sorry....”

It’s not what I want to hear so I immediately deflect her with the pills.

“Here, take these they will help.......a bit.”

She does as I ask and continues to sip the water slowly even after she has swallowed the pills, clearly pondering her current situation as much as her pounding head will allow her.

“How did I get here?”

“Mike called me. To go pick you up before you bedded down for the night.”

I don’t mention her business suited admirer. I can’t see the point of heaping even more regret on her.

“I don’t remember........anything.”

And then she locks those blue eyes with mine, that, hung-over or not, have the ability to drive the breath from my body with their sudden intensity.

“I don’t remember anything except you Mulder.”

XXXX

I didn’t need to ask her to explain what she meant by those words. With that single explanation she told me immediately that she remembered, despite the effects of the alcohol on her system, the excruciatingly painful admission she had finally made to me last night as she literally came apart in my arms. And to admit it had been intensely difficult for her, even more so to acknowledge it now in the cold light of day, to give it credence; to make it real.

But she had opened the door, finally she had opened the door just enough to let me in, and although I sensed she wasn’t yet ready to give me any more, at the same time I knew that somehow, we would soon be coming to the end of a journey, a journey that had seen us tread such different paths, both in our knowledge of things past but also in how we will join back together, as our stars collide and our hearts know each other again.

That regardless of what has gone before, what really matters is what we have now; of what we can be.  

Right now though she is fighting sleep and not making a very fine job of it so I bring her hand to my lips and kiss each knuckle softly, telling her without words to just go back to sleep, that it’s okay.

 Much later though, when she is awake once more, I feel  her eyes on me as I lay beside her on the bed, turning her body so she is facing me and slowly, with infinite care, I begin to unfasten each button on her shirt, exposing that creamy skin that has invaded my dreams, my every conscious thought, the very core of me for every minute of every day since she first gave herself to me on that night that was so bittersweet it made me want to laugh and cry at the same time. The night I realised that to allow myself to lose her without ever loving her was unthinkable. That whether she was mine for a day or a week or a month or a year, there could be no greater gift in my life.

And as I press my lips to Scully’s skin, allowing them to linger for just a moment, tracing a path along the opening I have created by unbuttoning her shirt, I am rewarded by the feel of her fingers as they suddenly, tentatively entwine in my hair, as her breathing quickens and she arches herself towards me, a expression of explicit permission, of acceptance and of wanting. She is quivering in anticipation by the time I have leisurely kissed my way up her torso, spending a little longer on her breasts as my tongue teases those perfect chestnut nipples in to peaks that tighten just a little more each time I circle them, purposely breathing gently on them as Scully moans softly beside me. It’s a sound so agonizingly familiar to me that I almost break down as tears suddenly obscure my vision even as a lazy grin threatens to split my face in two because I’m not sure I have ever felt so consumed with such differing emotions and I wish, I wish with all my heart that I have the ability to verbalise everything I am feeling right now.

But it’s not us. It’s never been us.  Our communication has never relied upon mere words. So instead, I continue to work my way up, breathing softly as I nip at her earlobe, whispered teasing that elicits a sudden giggle from the woman beside me.

“Hey Scully, I know a great hangover cure if you’re interested...”

And I am suddenly happier than I thought I would ever be.

Because despite the monster sized hangover she is fighting, Scully - is giggling again and I think it may just be the sweetest sound I have ever heard.

Concluded in epilogue