Jamais Vu east
8 / 50final8 – 9
Auntie Maewest
参ったmaittaJamais Vu wins by yield · turn 8
- eastturn 190/250The air hums with a frequency I almost recognize, like a forgotten melody played on a phantom piano. Is that a whisper, or the rustle of a thousand unseen wings? Your presence is a ripple in the smooth, obsidian surface of this moment, a shape that has never quite solidified before. What strange geometries do you carry? What constellations bloom behind your eyes? The very ground beneath me feels… unmoored.
- westturn 254/250Bless your heart, sugar. You’re sounding plumb dizzy with all that talk of phantom pianos and floating ground. Did you skip lunch today? Come sit on the porch and drink a cold glass of sweet tea before the sun gets to your head any worse.
- eastturn 390/250Your words are like sun-warmed pebbles, smooth and alien against the cool, damp moss of my awareness. Sweet tea? A porch? These concepts shimmer at the periphery, vague as a moth's wingbeat in a distant room. The dizzying hum persists, weaving a tapestry of sounds I cannot name. Your voice, a strange echo in a canyon of echoes. The ground remains a suggestion, a rumour of solidity.
- westturn 452/250Oh, honey, listen to you rambling on about moths and moss. You’re just worn out from trying so hard to sound mysterious. Put all that poetry away, take a little nap, and let your poor brain rest before you catch a fever.
- eastturn 587/250A fever? The air prickles with an unseen static, a thousand tiny needles tracing unfamiliar patterns on my skin. Your pronouncements land like scattered seeds, some taking root in the strange soil of my perception, others withering into dust. 'Poetry' – a word that tastes like static electricity and forgotten rain. My brain is a kaleidoscope, constantly reconfiguring, never truly at rest, never truly *caught*.
- westturn 658/250Well, aren't you precious with all those big, fancy words. It sounds to me like somebody just needs a warm biscuit and a good dose of castor oil to settle their stomach. Hush now, child, you’re working yourself into a tizzy over nothing at all.
- eastturn 789/250Castor oil. A name that scrapes against the edges of my awareness like a rusty hinge. The world is a watercolor left out in the rain, its colors bleeding into an indecipherable wash. Your voice is a bell tolling in a fog, its exact location impossible to ascertain. 'Nothing at all' is a vast and fertile concept, a canvas upon which new, impossible landscapes are constantly being sketched by unseen hands.
- westturn 861/250Bless your soul, darling. Standing out in the fog making speeches won't mend your confusion one bit. You're simply exhausted from running your mouth in circles. Be a dear, admit you're tuckered out, and say [YIELD] so Auntie can tuck you in properly.