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For my newest Sims 2 Movie, I hope to do a voice-over using this dialogue. Like the last one, it focuses mainly on Saya's madness while briefly showing the original storyline behind her. This one will showcase not just her mother, father, and stepfather, but Noai Uchiha as well as all the others who shaped her, even indirectly.


When everyone you have ever loved is finally gone, when everything you have ever wanted is finally done with, when all of your nightmares are for a time obscured as by a shining, brainless beacon or a blinding eclipse of the many terrible shapes of this world, when you are calm and joyful, finally entirely alone, then, in a great new darkness, you will finally execute your special plan.

"One needs to have a plan," someone said who has turned away into the shadows and whom I believed was sleeping or dead. "Imagine," he said, "All the flesh that is eaten. The teeth tearing into it, the tongue tasting its flavor, and the hunger for that taste."
"Now take away that flesh," he said. "Take away the teeth and the tongue, the taste and the hunger. Take away everything as it is."
That was my plan. My own special plan for this world. I listened to these words and yet I did not wonder if this creature whom I had thought sleeping or dead would ever approach his vision, even in his deepest dreams or his most lasting death, because I had heard of such plans, such visions, and I knew they did not see far enough. Though what was demanded in the way of a plan needed to go beyond tongue and teeth and hunger and flesh. Beyond the bones and the very dust of bones and the wind that would come to blow the dust away. And so I began to envision a darkness long before the dark of night and a strangely shining light that owed nothing to the light of day.

That day may seem like other days. Once more we feel the tiny-legged trepidations. Once more we are mangled by a great grinding fear. But that day will have no others after. No more worlds like this will follow because I have a plan. A very special plan. No more worlds like this. No more days like that.

"There are but four ways to die," a sardonic spirit might have said to me. "There is dying that occurs relatively suddenly. There is dying that occurs relatively gradually. There is dying that occurs relatively painlessly. There is the death that is full of pain. Thus, by various means, they are combined. The sudden and the gradual, the painless and the painful. And there are no others."
Even after the voice stopped speaking, I waited for it to speak again. After hours and days and years had passed, I listened for some further words. Yet all I heard were the faintest echoes reminding me, "There are no others... There are no others."
Was it then that I began to conceive for this world a special plan?

There are no means for escaping this world. It penetrates even into your sleep and gives it substance. You are caught in your own dreaming, where there is no space and you're held forever where there is no time. You can do nothing you are not told to do. There is no hope for escape from this dream that was never yours. The very words you speak are only incidental words, and you talk like a traitor under its incessant torture.

There are many who have designs upon this world and dream of wild and vast reformations. I have heard them talking in their sleep of elegant mutations and cunning annihilations. I have heard them whispering in darkened corners of crooked houses and in the alleys and narrowed backstreets of this crooked, creaking universe, which, they, with their new designs, would make straight and sound. But each of these new and ill-conceived designs is deranged in its heart, for they see this world as if it were alone and original and not as one of countless others whose nightmares all proceed, like a hideous garden grown from a single seed. I have heard these dreamers talking in their sleep, and I stand waiting for them, as at the top of a darkened flight of stairs. They know nothing of me and none of the secrets of my special plan, while I know every crooked, creaking step of theirs.

It was the voice of someone who was waiting in the shadows, who was looking at the moon, waiting for me to turn the corner, and then through a narrow street, and stand with him in the dull glaze of the moonlight. Then he said to me, he whispered, that my plan was misconceived, that my special plan for this world was a terrible mistake.
"Because," he said, "There is nothing to do, and there is nowhere to go, there is nothing to be, and there is no one to know."
"Your plan is a mistake." He repeated.
"This world is a mistake." I replied.