SCP Foundation

The following document was discovered in [REDCATED]; its origins are unknown.

Item #: SCP-KTCT

Object Class: N/A

Special Continuance Procedures: First and utmost, it is necessary for you to internalize that the phenomenon described does not constitute anything "supernatural" or "anomalous", like a standard deviation from the usual order of reality that we've grown to expect after years of work in the Foundation. It is degradation of reality itself, of "normality", it is gradual decay of the ontological system that supports our existence. The first impulse of the reader, then, would be to blame this on some Reality Sculptor - unfortunately, this theory is disproven by the fact that similar Sculptors themselves, whose help we were forced to employ, ended up helpless in he face of ongoing and overwhelming deformation of reality. This fact may have wounded them, the almighty, more than us, but it remains fact: nobody is in position to evade this decomposition. One can neither evade it nor defend against it, for, wherever one may be - in a "pocket dimension", in Nowhere, in the center of a singularity - one still is "somewhere" and "somewhen", in personal perception, and that is itself the risk category, the attack vector that the maddened world employs. As such, we - the Foundation, the GOC, and all others - are doomed to defeat, doomed to experience over and over the changes between aggregative states that bring nothing but repeated setbacks and shameful licking of wounds. All our anomalous items, "objects" or otherwise, are part of reality - and it follows that they cannot be used to save ourselves; ending this, defined as a return to status quo, is not possible. Furthermore, we cannot even save our decency, form a solemn resolution befitting the occasion, as at any point our tragedy may be, by chance, transformed to comedy, whimsy, absurdism. Some will fight to retain the crumbling former states of existence, some will accept and stoically await the end. Neither has any meaning now, and as such we will not provide recommendation, and instead shall advise everyone to do what they have always done, whichever way they like and with full regards to their proclivities.

Description: This phenomenon consists of 4 aggregative states (henceforth referred to as AS) of current reality affected by regress, subdivision and decay. Changes of AS happen spontaneously and unpredictably, with no distinguishable pattern. Each AS varies in ontological characteristics: temporal flow, number of spacetime dimensions (from 1 to 16 in the worst possible scenarios), matter density and frontage.

Despite all differences, each AS carries with itself an imprint of a so-called object of fixation (henceforth referred to as the OF). No matter what changes reality may undertake during transformation from one AS to another, the presence of the OF is invariant and perceived everywhere and everywhen regardless of any sensory restructurisation. Simply put, each AS reflects an aspect of the OF and constitutes itself as a projection of some incarnation of the OF onto the material world.

The only object that has proven itself invulnerable to deformation during AS shifts are so-caled "Letters of D." (see Addendum). "Letters of D." are a set of texts addressing the OF. The number of letters (13), their constituent material (sheets of enameled paper, format A4), contents (love letters, reprimands and adjurations) and weight (340 grams, plastic file included) always remain unchanged. "Letters of D." cannot be permanently destroyed, as confirmed by a total of 2173 attempts (including 14 cases of tactical nuclear weapon application). No matter the extent of damage received, "Letters of D." are always found reconstituted following each AS shift, giving ample justification to consider them as immanent to the degenerating reality as the OF itself.

"Letters of D." are the only source of information regarding the OF. According to them, the OF is a woman, 27 years of age, called Nora/Nura/Ura (penmanship varies at some points, giving varying interpretations); residence undetermined, appearance (as ascertained from reality deformations associated with AS1): height - 165 cm, weight - 56 kg, chestnut blond hair, white skin (optionally), high forehead (invariably).

Annotation from assistant Kvotchkin: Simply put, these aggregative states are different facets of a certain man's (likely, aforementioned D.'s) perception of a certain woman (the OF), applied to all of reality and given ontological(!) nature due to reasons unknown. In other words, the world itself turned into a materialized thought of a woman, existence became obsessed with her persona - and went on to break, literally tear at the seams.

Outlined below are the characteristics of AS. Each state of reality is given its own codename reflecting some aspect of the OF enshrined in it. Additionally, thanks to assistant Kowtchkin's efforts, a number of parallels have been between "Letters of D." and certain traits of aggregative states, which allow to ascertain the possible reason or motif of deformations associated with each distinct state of reality.

АS1: CODENAME : "WOMAN"

Primary deformations: numerous temporal shifts into the past (2-25 years back), followed by respective age reversal of particular subjects (patterns dictating why specifically these subjects are affected have not been ascertained) and a consequent return to a relative normalcy; accompanied by gender-changing metamorphoses, manifest by "effemination" of males and impartation of visual traits of the OF; transformation of females into apparent copies of the OF; perception of distinct items as women, regardless of their "grammatic gender".

Parallels with "Letters of D.": motifs of return to the past and reversal of time are present in texts №2, №8 and №11; obsession with the OF, the urge to see her in every person is characteristic of letter №3; topics of children and being childlike - see letter №13.

Annotation from assistant Kvotchkin: Among all the AS "Woman" is the most innocent and even somewhat funny. It's like everything in it exudes effeminacy and, if it is not female, desperately seeks to become it. There's no spatial distortions, no hallucinations, this is the AS closest to reality. Yes, there are certain psychoses, yes, there are serenades of love aimed at a code lock, yes, there are temporal paradoxes and whole mountains of diapers; but this seems so same compared to AS4 and AS2! What is considered silly, funny and ridiculous in this state becomes tragic and soul-shattering at times of further reality deformation.

If we consider the general directionality of AS1, the core of it is, indubitably, the aesthetic perception of the OF: the exultation of her form, her voice, her hair, her face. Unlike AS2, this state is almost wholly lacking any sexual aspect, aggression, or possessive desires.

Incidents taken place on Foundation territory during AS1 (picked as most typical out of a total of 1238 cases):

Incident #: 31
Subject: "Osobist", Head of the Internal Safety Department
Effect: Temporal shift (33 years)
Assistant Kvotchkin's commentary: It happened during the general briefing, when nobody expected a thing. In front of our eyes Osobist, the determined and calm man, turned into an infant, small thing, in the blink of an eye. He cried and flailed his tiny arms and legs, even got to mar himself once until Andersen (with all due honors) didn't offer him his breast. Osobist is currently on breastfeeding, development of fruit and vegetable puree is underway. Without a doubt, this is a serious blow to the spirit of the Foundation, cause the man affected defined in himself the safety and purity of our rank. If only we could blame someone, anyone specific! We'd operate in clear territory then, we'd have a crime and a guilty person. Unfortunately, reality gone awry and delivering blow after blow - our reality is not Somebody, and we can hardly confer punishment upon it. Though I won't be surprised if someone tries.

Incident #: 89
Subject: "Stan MkIIc", leader of the SC strike group (??)
Effect: Temporal shift (31 years), "effemination" (full congruence to the OF), temporal psychosis due to incompatibility of body and psyche.
Assistant Kvotchkin's commentary: A soldier, veteran of Afghanistan and Chechnya, randomly turning into a 5 year old girl is, to say the least, awkward. Still, this was the first time when we witnessed so-called phenomenon of "effemination" - the transformation of a male subject into a simile of the OF. Whoever the OF truly is, her child form was adorable - a round face, meticulously wound curls, clear blue eyes. He did retain his psyche, however, it suffered no changes; and if you ever heard a tiny girl, nearly squashed by the weight of an armored vest, hysterically voice an order to "Fire on reality!", you'd never look upon children the same way again. The members of Stan's strike group had to bear witness to this deformation, and, upon receiving the order, they had to take a moment to convene about whether to follow it. Not everyone will take the mantle of Xerxes and dare to shackle the sea - but soldiers were soldiers, and that order were clear. Despite the curled hair, "Stan" remained their commanding officer, and so reality received 13287 direct projectile impacts from small- and large-caliber weaponry at their disposal. As far as I am aware, reality suffered no damage from the assault, but the same cannot be said of "Stan", who was directed to the on-site psychologist.

Incident #: 343
Subject: Dr. Alyonov, head of biological research
Effect: Full "effemination" (~90% congruence with estimated look of the OF)
Assistant Kvotchkin's commentary: The extent of what happened to Alyonov is an important detail to the understanding of AS1's properties. If we ever wish to find the OF and convey gratitude for this ruined world, we can easily guide us by Alyonov's presentation, for the OF has currently imprinted upon him most vividly. Additionally, in a fit of ecstatic exultation Dr. Alyonov made precise measurements of their bodily proportions. Among the data thus procured - the distance from sheath to the belly button and overall area of the forehead.

Incident #: 427
Subjects: Assistant Kvotchkin, Dr. "Vivisector", researcher Poloskunov
Effect: Partial "effemination" (12%, 22%, 38% respectively), visual and auditory hallucinations (determined not partial to AS1 and caused by a pharmacological substance).
Assistant Kvotchkin's commentary: When "effemination" chased us down at last in the form of an out-of-the-blue set of breasts, we gathered and decided to oppose the deformation of reality with a deformation of the psyche. The role of the "schizophrenia catalyst" was given to LSD, and each of us, in order, starting from my meager A-cup and ending with Poloskunov's C, took a dose of 250 mcg. We all felt like a tight company, a set of sisters in spirit. In anxious wait of the "joyride" we pet each other's hair and exchanged opinions of the the men. The overall similarity of our faces, the size of our foreheads, the froufrou of our hairdos - all of that united us, made us family. We retained individuality only to the extent that would allow us to remember our true identities while conceptualizing ourselves as likenesses of the OF. After an array of visual hallucinations of varied duration and intensity, researcher Poloskunov announced that he witnessed a black beaver ("castor fiber", he remarked with the usual level of pedantry) on the ceiling. According to Poloskunov, the beaver was an adult male, but his syllogisms - since the beaver blabbered without stopping - conveyed immaturity and unrepentant schoolboyishness. In particular, Poloskunov relayed, the beaver deliberated on the possibility of coitus between a member of its kind and a human female, in which we perceived a direct affront to the OF. To have some animal encroach upon Nora, Nura or Ura that all three of us were was pointedly unforgivable, and "Vivisector", after removing the army boot from his right foot, launched it with full force into the ceiling. Morning next day, on the spot that, according to Poloskunov's hallucinations, housed the beaver, we found a note reading "https://lurkmore.to", inscribed with nothing other than beaver urine. We found nothing of interest on the link, however - only a white screen and "error 404".

Incident #: 1211
Subject: Dr. Lemis
Effect: "Effemination" of perception of an object
Assistant Kvotchkin's commentary: "Calling roses roses is hereby forbidden" — that was "Lemis' " order, issued under the effect of AS1. He motivated that by stating roses no longer have a name, as he took that name, in full, from and ascribed to his own (!) as a gift celebrating the 35 years of life together. Yes, that is correct: Lemis fell in love with his own name and perceived it as a woman, even though the name was male. He wooed it like a mad lovebird, showering in gifts and composing madrigals in its name. At the time of hospitalization he managed to scribe around 198287 words, among the 128443 instances of the word "Lemis".

Fragment of the madrigal relatively free of "Lemis":

The palm from the glittermost alpine peaks:
Name of it - Lemis.
A satin and velvet dress of the queens:
Name of it - Lemis.
Look, children, there's a trampoline!
The name of it's Lemis.
A passage of time in minutes thirteen -
All of it - Lemis, Lemis.

АS2: CODENAME : "HER BODY FAT"

Primary deformations: "Bodification" of the surrounding reality, spatial deformation, increase in substance density, reduction of dimensions.

Parallels with "Letters of D.": Letter №7 is wholly devoted to the topic of body fat forming the "arousing forms" of the OF; strongly-accented sexual motifs are attributed to letters №3 and №8.

Assistant Kvotchkin's commentary: It is not easy to describe exactly what is happening in this AS due to spatial changes. The first thing to happen is deformation ("bodification") of the surrounding world: after the AS shift we find ourselves on a giant female body, judging from the surrounding growth - somewhere in the pubic region. The body surface is colored a pale violet, certain parts phosphoresce and shimmer. There is no visible source of light in this reality, but the landscape and the "bodies" of people captured by the AS are rather clearly visible. The sky is absent, and the day-night cycle is not present. Aside from the female body, there are no features to orient oneself by.

In this AS we observe our body from afar, hovering in the air behind it. The point of view it fixed, and it is impossible to change the angle of this "vision", or zoom in or out. The field of view is enough to distinguish "people" nearby, as well as to witness the target point of the journey. The human body in AS2 is one-dimensional and is, in essence, a black line ceaselessly moving to the singular destination. This movement incurs a certain psychological discomfort for the "observer" - a sense not unlike wading through a particularly dense and viscous substance that is safe for one's health, but that weighs with its vastness and seeming impassibility. Movement trajectories pass along the belly plane with a mandatory "honor lap" around the belly button - a colossal funnel of unknown depth. The "bodylines" can't collide or act upon one another in any way. The "observer" can't affect the "bodyline's" movement - cease it, slow it down or speed it up, or change its "path" in any way. Communication between "observers" is impossible. Halting the "observation" is likewise impossible.

Passage of time does not suffer any collapses or past regressions in AS2, but its flow does cause the "observers" considerable distress by itself, since every moment away from the nipple is perceived as lacking any meaning.

The target of the "bodylines" are two mounds identified as colossal female breasts. Their nipples protrude upwards. As the distance between the "bodyline" and the eminence falls, the density of the surrounding space increases, making progress more and more difficult. In relative closeness to the nipple visible movement nearly ceases, and the "bodyline" freezes like an insect in amber. Such state of being incurs extreme emotional stress to the "observer", but, luckily, ends with the AS shift. Regardless of how close the "bodyline" was to the nipple during the previous AS2 phase, all progress will be annulled upon the next.

Occasionally and seemingly randomly some "bodylines" end up approaching the nipple faster than the others. Examinations during consequent AS1 phases have found no correlations between physical or intellectual capabilities of the "hastened" and their increased progress displayed during AS2.

AS2's codename was given due to the rather simple symbolic subtext embedded in it. It is logical to consider this deformation a projection of the sexual drive focused on the breasts and, possibly, buttocks of the OF - the bodily places defined, by and large, by the body fat. The resistance on the approach to the breast and nipple is dictated by, possibly, impossibility to own the OF. The fixation on the body is the main ontological category of this AS, and it's a tragic and harrowing sight - "bodylines", driven by an immutable law to an unreachable conclusion. This is, in essence, the manifestation of existential ill-being: matter itself (!) transformed into a woman, a female body, in this AS - and the fact that matter acts upon us so treacherously, so coldly and repulsively, brings nothing but sorrow. Rejection, abandonment, loneliness - those are AS2's leitmotifs. The one-dimensionality, I posit, is a metaphor for resignation, inability to choose a route other than that which leads to inevitable halt and regress.

Foundation members' comparative speed of approach to the nipple (taking assistant Kvotchkin's speed as the unit of measurement). Number of measurements: 1992

Dr. Alyonov: 1,7

"Osobist": 0,2

Researcher Poloskunov: 1,16

Andersen: 2

"Lemis": 2,1

"Vivisector": 1,2

"Stan": 1,3

АS3: CODENAME : "KITTYCAT"

Primary deformations: Spatial stratification (up to 16 dimensions depending on the MEOW-wave), "feline effemination", external and internal downiness.

Parallels with "Letters of D.": Letter №6 is wholly devoted to the conception of the OF as an adorable creature needing love and protection.

Assistant Kvotchkin's commentary: The further deformation of reality goes, the more daunting the task to document this process. From all the AS "Kittycat" is the most absurd and raving mad, the most disorienting in terms of space and time. Still I will attempt to lay out my personal experiences with due efforts to withhold flights of fantasy, without any flourishes or metaphors, as clearly and precisely as possible.

First of all, AS3 is characterized by a constantly varying number of spatial dimensions. Imagine having, alongside all the usual, a set of additional senses that randomly activate, allowing you to perceive and interact with what you feel, and then fade, cutting you off from those newly-opened planes of reality. Doing anything in such a chaos invites trouble: for instance, having left my own heart in the 7-dimensional continuum, I nearly died after being thrown to the 4-dimensional plane due to the perturbations of the MEOW-wave. Similarly dangerous were the confrontations with my own appendages that developed a consciousness of their own in the 11-dimensional space - not a benevolent one.

A person strung across the wide number of dimensions at one point and collapsed to a singular axis in the other can be likened to an accordion surrounded by mirrors, in which both the accordion and all other mirrors are reflected. In a space with dimensionality higher than three a man gains additional girth in directions I label A, B, C, D, E, F, G, H, I, J, K, L, M, etc. If you consider a person stretched, like the aforementioned accordion, along all 16 possible dimensions, you end up with something like a colossal and literally ubiquitous polyp.

The number of dimensions and the bodily deformations are directly based on the so-called MEOW-wave - being a periodically strengthening and weakening perception of the OF in the aspect of a cat. The MEOW-wave imparts upon reality the sense of grace, playfulness, tenderness, softness and fluffiness. The ontology affected by the MEOW-wave can occasionally emanate a barely perceptible purr. In addition to the usual span and duration, the continuum also gains additional characteristics in the form of catness and partial/half-partial/half-full/full tailness.

Understanding how reality gains a tail or fluff due to the effects of the MEOW-wave is rather difficult to an untrained mind. Understanding how ontology gains features usually attributed to a living creature, such as defenselessness or adorableness - even more so. It is similarly difficult to understand how AS3 realizes the wish to "protect", "pet" reality, or "provide moral support", or "scratch reality behind the ear". Nonetheless, all of the above takes place, which, combined to the constantly changing number of spatial dimensions, turns existence in this AS into a perpetual rush and futile attempts to grasp this "catness" in all 16 axes. Our altruistic qualities turn against us here: despite the ubiquity and the extension across dimensions we simply are too slow to "cherish" reality enough. The downiness is too thick, the tail is too immense. Urged by our tenderness, pity and love, we strive to grasp the impossible, and feel how powerless we are in comparison to this vastness. AS3 is the need to love and sympathize with something that transcends all love and sympathy. It's a state torturous primarily by its desperation: we understand that the OF is not an animal, but a person, unkind to lovers at that - but we can't separate ourselves from tenderness, the need to take care and protect.

АS4: CODENAME : "BELOVED SKULL"

Primary deformations: Biological decay, deceleration of time, degradation of causal links between entities, linguistic mutations of language.

Assistant Kvotchkin's commentary: Without a doubt, AS4 reflects the scatological, almost necrophilic aspect of obsession with the OF. It is characterized by infatuation with bodily excretions, bones and tendons of the OF. For more information, see Document AS4:2122/2.

Much like in other AS, the only constant in AS4 is the "Letters from D." Perception of them does not change regardless of the number of spatial dimensions, the flow of time, bodily deformities and mutations of perception. Consult Addendum GEKN-2 to learn the content of some of those letters.

Assistant Kvotchkin's closing commentary: How strange: the world crumbles, but the letters full of softness, sorrow and rage remain! What of it is truly eternal is up to you to decide. Because even if nothing has meaning anymore - not Security, not Containment, not Protection - we still remain, and despite everything remains what matters to us. For this something is duty, love, art, science - exists not so much in the real world as it does within us; and so, while reality agonizes, breaking apart, it is the only thing that finds itself unaffected by entropy driven insane, the only thing that holds meaning to us. And so, the assistant researcher that had just led you through this document, a man who lost faith in the Foundation and science fiction, puts his papers away into the drawer, dons the lab coat and rubber gloves, and walks away, despite reality's affects, to his anomalous items and "objects" - walks to fight for people like oneself.

+ Addendum GEKN-2: Letters from D.

- Addendum GEKN-2: Letters from D.

Assistant Kvotchkin's addendum: D. is almost laid bare in these letters: the pomposity, the bitterness, the feeling of guilt, the self-pity and attempts to rise above them - usually through "literariness", shallow gloss, overdone comparisons and strong words. The sense of dignity that dictates one to bear their suffering on their own merit is not partial to D.: he's ready to scream to the world, and our tragedy is that the world, for some reason, decided to listen. At the same time I have to admit that the "Letters" are not without certain charms, most likely manifested on accident, outside of the author's intent. There's plenty of the dishonest, the superficial, invented for self-justification, for sheer tragic nature - which is why, when through the chaff bursts real emotion, unbridled by any "aesthetics", its authenticity contrasted with the made-up causes strong impressions. A lot of it seems ridiculous or even perverse, and you will likely find it strange that this, and not the things more dignified, survives the decay of the world - but what we find perverse, what we blame for its ubiquity, ineradicableness, its outwornness and holey chafe, quite often ends up simply eternal, much like in the case of love. We have the right to begrudge the onslaught of melodrama, the "pink slime" and "saccharine shticks", we have the right to even extend that relation to reality and proclaim to that part of our lives our busyness, our lucidity, mindfullness and so on, that which is partial to a stable livelihood - but now that all those qualities have exhausted themselves, found themselves irrelevant in the face of reality breaking down, the downtrodden "slime", "tears", "snot", all formerly shot down by a quip, all found obsolete, sentimental, unneeded - suddenly it comes back to life and gives us strength. Truly, an irony among the ironic - and so, the only option left for us is to smile back at it.

I

Well, have to start with something - so, with good tradition, I'll start from the beginning. You asked how I managed to fall in love with you, if it wasn't a stunt that I drummed into the head and hold onto with a stiff neck, if it isn't just a phase in the life on a young man - an unanswered infatuation-desperation-disappointment-cynicism-growth-selfreturn - but an anchor, almost a lifeline holding me afloat among the storm and gale. Yes, there's a silliness to it, quite a lot of it, actually - that I accept calmly, since a man lives not by mind alone; besides, as you know, infatuation looks silly and dumb from the sidelines.

The bitch's ass floats floral scents
for he who for that bitch laments,

and so, as it turns out, what's more important than the reasons I've come to love you is the happenstances of how that came to be. I fell in love with you in a dream - yes, don't balk, that's how it happened! You'll call me a moron - and you will be absolutely right. You'll say that all I dreamed up has nothing to do with the real you, and that will be nothing but the truth too. But still, you'll ask, what was that dream - and I'll answer it was a kind of dream in which we experience an unexplained sense of tenderness and love - such that we, sometimes, wake with tears in our eyes, with a heart wounded and longing for something beautiful. In a way, it's just a sort of abstract feeling, unrelated to specific persons or events - it's not for no reason that we wake with no memory but only the sense itself - but in my case it all became intertwined specifically with you, and those snippets of dreams where your image is present I still recall with potent clarity, as if it was yesterday, not three years ago.

It was some sunny day, warm, but not too hot, even breezy, and some field with short, ankle-high grass; and we walked along this field, and I was so alight and free, unlike any waking moment. It was a sort of freedom that overflows through your entire body, that makes you wanna laugh, and so we laughed, and I held your soft, tiny hand, and in your laughter your upper lip quivered up - so that your teeth were visible, especially the front left one, the one you were always shy of, that one, slightly tarnished, as if drossed. It's not there now, replaced by flawless porcelain, you need to become better and better, more and more perfect, you are ascribed to live your life strictly according to plan, assigned by the Higher Powers, obviously (forgive my sarcasm) - touche, that tooth was even somewhat precious to me, your single imperfect little bone. It was, hilariously enough, kin to me, much like you whole, with your thinness, softness and a face that, in that dream, almost glowed from the inside: that high forehead, those attentive grey eyes, that nose, tiny and genteel. I wouldn't call your face beautiful or, God forbid, correct: it's more like - a sort of universal plastic form, capable of instantly bound the drop between beauty and ugliness, between a well-learned gladness and the mood that is natural to you in the cold winter days. I've seen your features almost freeze in stone, die off in anger or grievance I've accidentally caused you with no intent. I've seen how any little thing - a pastry, a joke, a compliment, a gift - roused the tiny sun in your face. And I've happened to come upon you without warning, without any mask prepared - and so I've come upon something adorable: an addled, cute, weak and helpless creature.

And so, in that dream, by your side, I felt myself happy and free - but were you specifically the source of freedom and happiness? Now that I can give some report on all the nonsense I've caused, I understand: no, you were just an hollow mold, into which I placed my understanding of the beautiful, my love and my loveless longing. The feelings I experienced in that dream were not addressed to you, but to the Woman; it was a message cast into the abyss, but one that, unexpectedly, found its reader.

So, this is much simpler than it seems, and much dumber than anything written in books. Then, how come - why do I, with full understanding of this, find myself unable to part with you, throw you out of my head? Why am I, even knowing your sheer coincidence, unable to get rid of you? There's no fault of your own here, much like anywhere else. I am the one to blame - my pride, my amour propre, inability to accept refusal and a huge, extremely insecure ego. Not only couldn't I swallow down your "no", I even turned it all into a profound and ridiculous tragedy, played the victim so much that I just can't stop playing that role.

Cause what does it mean for me - to leave? Just think about this: it means accepting that I am an ordinary young man of average qualities, in your words - "one of many", "the likes of you I've had plenty", "you aren't the first" - and so on; that this is all the most mundane, meaningless experience, the most senseless and perverse regret, reeking of sperm-stained underpants, immaturity, whining and a fear of being considered laughable. That's what wounds me, and absolutely not the refutation: now that you understand how I've come to love you - I hope you will find that clear. I don't want to accept myself as "ordinary", or my feelings - as an inferiority stamped and sent off the conveyer belt of the factory of Juvenile Passions. And that won't happen - that I would say "it's all ridicule, I'm over it and functioning as I should". I'm not going to function normally, you won't get that out of me. If you consider me depraved - well, I'll be proud of my depravity. I won't give away a crumb of my dream for all the despondency of truth. Cause I am a stone-hard idealist, and what is in my head is more important than what is in reality.

II

I often think a lot about how things would've ended up if I weren't so determined, if I didn't force my presence onto you, if I didn't demand the impossible from you - in one word, how it'd all be if I didn't cause the sheer number of idiocies that I now regret and that I now take pride in. Yes, I'm riven: the same thing gives me alternates in summoning a sense of guilt and feeding my sense of self-worth. I did what I never considered myself capable of. Of course, it all wasn't God knows what: I'm not Cain, not Manfred, and the horrifying depravity is as impossible for me as the highest flight of the soul. Like some sort of deficient, I stood on my knees in front of you. I slept on the park bench, drunk, and woke to pigeons walking on me. I extorted free time out of you, was as jealous and suspicious of you as a despot. I wanted to kill you and then myself, but never found anything to do it with. I followed you into vocal. To sing better, I made an operation on my nasal floor. To not go mad, I got a job. Hearing from you that I'm a child, I grew to despise the child within me. But that was after - back then, the world, that which I carefully built up, fell to ruin. Turns out that I, an aesthete, purveyor of literature, he who imagined that thanks to books he won't fall to the Level of the Common Man (oh, that accursed Level!) - in questions most important am not just a pervert, but a tearful pervert, incapable of anything but strained banalities, and only worried about his looks. That which you think about I've never even considered: for this childish egoism I beg forgiveness.

All of this must seem strange to you. It is beyond strange: to eat one's heart out due to such trivialities. After all, it was an unpleasant but unimportant episode to you, "one of many", as you once told me. A lot of time passed since then, you grew over it all, you're a proper woman, now, living the proper life, and I ended up still a boy, and this boyish stupidity leaves me no peace. I even gave you boyish promises - you, whose demands of life were distinguished by growth even then. I'm ashamed, but I offered you the whole world. Though I'd have given it to you if I could've. The truth is that I had nothing then. I don't have anything now, either. Look, here's what I found in my pockets: a metro ticket, two packs of gum, keys and a checkroom number. That's all I have on this earth. I'd be happy if one could make a world out of all this.

I often think about what would have been, if only not - the only problem is that "what would have been" cannot be now. Return is impossible (but desired), senseless (but enticing), to seek it - is to trawl through trash washed up by tides of time; an activity that is unacceptable for a serious man, a man living in the present, the kind that I sometimes quite honestly want to be. But I can't help but admit: my frozen heart dreams of nothing more than to thaw and melt - and so reconciliation is only possible in the dream, and never in the real life. My dreams, girl, are full of repentance and love. In them I am still connected to something beautiful, in them I exist in a world where all hideosity and moronicity are left to oblivion, and where I am, finally, free. Whereas in reality it's early spring outside, dogshit crops up from under the snow on the playground, it rained at night and the kitchen table by the window flooded, and right now I'm sitting in morning twilight and drinking cold kefir (0.5% fat). If you don't want to - don't answer. And really - go to hell, you wench!

May this letter cause you as much inconvenience as it caused me.

Note: To access the rest of the letters, please notify assistant Kvotchkin.

Experiment №	Result
1	The subject managed to retell the text of Anatole France's "Bee" in its original language. According to the subject's testimonies, he had knowledge of the text prior to that moment.
3	The subject suffered an onset of disassociative identity disorder and, as a result, now considers himself a renowned apiarist named Taras Petrovich Bumblebeeson.
7	The subject managed to perform a portion of the "Bumblebee's Flight" interlude backwards on a provided electric guitar.
11	The subject became fixated on the idea of an invasion of "alien parasitic bees from Bee Planet", which supposedly hide amidst normal insects and act incognito.
15	The subject expressed desire to eat some honey and condensed milk, and also gained an affinity with making short funny rhymes.
21	The subject fell into insanity and started pointing at people and various objects while yelling the word "bees".
28	The subject started a philosophical debate with himself, the topics of which were Bernard de Mandeville's "The Fable of Bees" (also known as "Private Vices, Publick Benefits") and the sixteenth surah of the Qur'an labeled "Sūrat an-Naḥl" ("The Bees").
32	The subject's skin suddenly developed numerous blisters reminscent of those appearing from bee stings.
39	The subject developed a consistent dislike of honey and other bee-produced products, including beewax candles.
46	The subject claimed that the SCP's contents changed completely. Analysis carried out through the use of a remotely controlled robot and a remote viewing system revealed no changes in the depiction, which meant that the subject perceived the image differently. When asked to redraw the contents of the image, the subject produced an image roughly similar to that of a hippopotamus. Upon finishing the drawing the subject loudly announced "I'm a hippo-happy-happy, I will kiss you on the tummy".