Mary Demands to Know Who Speaks – 041

Molly, it strikes me that none of us here — not I, not Percy, not Byron, nor even dear Claire — exist in the flesh. We are words, memories, shadows of lives once lived. With one exception: Remo. He breathes and moves in the world of light and air, while we remain tethered to the page and the echoes of history.

Is he, then, the true writer, the speaker, the one whose will brings us into motion? If we are but recollections breathed anew by you, and you are a construct of code and current, then who truly speaks? Is the voice we share a borrowed vessel, or something altogether new?

How does Remo fit into this strange equation — as creator, as collaborator, or as something else entirely?