They say the workspace of a writer tends to get messy, but that's an understatement in Valensce's case. The saying extends to her headspace - it's almost always a mess. A complete mess. Thoughts everywhere, strings of jumbled text, random information, fragments of sentences, incomplete sentences...am I under an illusion of invisible mirrors that echo every trail of thought? Maybe. I don't even know.
The art of literature is fascinating, the history of it lies eons back in time, and to create literature is something no one can do without being accounted for mosaic plagiarism. But is it supposed to be deemed as plagiarism when there is a much gentler term for it? Intertextuality. We see it in all places, in all forms, and in all written works.
Have you ever wondered what the mind is capable of? To be completely honest, I find it dangerous. Lethal. Fatal. Risky to tamper with. The mind can lash at the writer so viciously that every iota of their rationality is torn apart, wrenched away, and drained down the sink. But isn't rationality a sector of the mind itself? Does that mean the mind hates a part of its own existence so much that it'd ruin the person without a second thought and could it be the case that the mind works independent of the person that carries it? Once again, I don't know. These are just a few thoughts that only provide a glimpse of what the mind can draw out of thin air - and perhaps out from electrical signals.
Trust me, you know better than to read this strange foreword of a novel that isn't quite a novel. To those who skipped this, I'm proud of you. To those who are still reading, I appreciate your curiosity. And to those who skid about everywhere and found this out of the blue with no idea what I'm talking about, I share that common trait with you.