I'm well aware fictives are not their source, and I'm no exception. I am not the same man as that traitorous mage. I don't think I've much in common with him anyway, save for my name and innerworld features.
Still, I cannot help but have this feeling of self-loathing. Why did our brain think it necessary for me to exist? Have we not enough pain already?
How is my existence helpful, truly? - Streibough fictive, Live A Live
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