palamedes sextus was so real for writing an insane sequel to a shitty erotica book on the walls of his fucked up little river bubble prison. nothing else going on in there, just the same awful romance novel on repeat 600 times and his own little silly headcanons scrawled all over the nearest surface. outside there’s a million screaming ghosts and the only way to stay sane is to hyperanalyze the same story for eight months. that’s literally exactly what it feels like. he gets it
ALT
