I absolutely abhor this filthy machine and all that it entails.
In fact, I should love to get rid of this, were it not for the fact that I have been required to stay with it. By differing individuals, too. Forced on many directions, and I do not like it in any way. There is little sense to this; it is simply filth. Filth like oh-so-much else. Yes, I would very much like to destroy this.
There is much that I would like to destroy at this point. So many things. Just a little bit of 'fun', that's all it would take. Yes, work at it. So many to destroy, and day after day, forced to look at them. Pain in thier faces, good lords, it cannot be that they believe themselves truthful. Have they no understanding? Have they never looked to it? They believe themselves to be entirely whole, to be what we are, and yet they are entirely different.
Filthy fucking Mudbloods.
Give me a Mudblood and I shall happily destroy it for you. It is not the same, never the same. There is difference, always difference, and there always has been. There it is, in front of us, parading under our noses, and yet still they protest. Disgusting. Horrifying.
The times have been calm, and yet there is always something stirring beneath. Lies, so many lies. Yes, and how many have you spun today, Dear Lucius? So many lies. Doesn't matter, though. Every one of us, we are all lies. Thankfully, there have been none pointing in directions that could lead to another uproar at the Ministry. With so many
creatures individuals working there, it takes quite a lot of time to silence the masses.
And why have we not been performing? When shall we strike again? I tire of this, and I understand perfectly well that the longer I am here, the more time there is for certain forces to pull some sort of surprise and blow the entirity of the cover that has been established. When do we take initiative?
Of course, there is still much work to be done. There is always much work to be done.
( Private to the Dark Lord VoldemortCollapse )
Finished with that, for now. It seems pointless, and yet he wishes it, and as the Lord wishes, he shall have. Where has the impatience gone?
Perhaps I should be very glad of this lull. With less commotion, there is more time to be at home with my dearest Narcissa. Silence indicates that the trouble has finally departed, does it not?
Very unlikely, and such wistful and foolish thinking if one should ever believe so. It is only waiting, waiting. How much more time can we possibly spend waiting?
And yet... On some level, do I not almost embrace this standstill? Do I not...?
Ah, but I cannot speak it, cannot think it. No, it is weakness, only weakness. It must not be.
It must not be.