Post by Benjamin Atreyu on Feb 2, 2014 17:34:30 GMT -5
The camera opens upon a scene of detailed confusion; a room in shambles, as if in the wake of a catastrophic event. Pages torn out of books and tossed around the room, furniture laying on its side or broken in one way or another, a window in the back of the room shattered, the glass strewn about in front of it as if it was broken from the outside, the wall paper looks worn to shit as if having experienced years of tragedy and heart ache, the wooden paneled floor scratched and scuffed, the counters (the ones that were visible) chipped in various spots, and a fireplace stained with sot as if the fires, no longer able to be contained, poured forth into the room, burning the family pictures that sat on the mantel above it. The camera pans over the room and reveals Benjamin Atreyu sitting in the corner in a vibrant red armchair detailed with gold thread embroidery. He looks over at the camera with a sort of joyless grin, as if sarcastically indulging its existence amidst the chaos.
“Virginia Woolf, would you have survived the modern world or would you have been swallowed up by the constantly shrinking attentions span and the growing sensationalism in indulgent romance novels? You were a mind of unparalleled talent, speaking with the articulate nature of a Walt Whitman, but with the complexity of William Faulkner. You interpretation of the modern philosopher in “To the Lighthouse” held me captive for days as I could feel myself connecting with the character on a deeper level than I thought possible; feeling his fear sitting just short of true accomplishment, unsure of his stance to the rest of the world, constantly seeking acceptance from those around him, all while trying to expand his mind to see the world in a light that so few truly see it.
---“That is your beauty, Virginia, you get in the head of your characters and explain what they are thinking with such great clarity and weight that it seems as if their world is teetering on a mere strand. I am constantly sucked into your work, reading over the same line five or ten times to try and grasp the immense brilliance behind it. It has ruined lesser authors for me. I use to be able enjoy the occasion ‘commercial’ book for the sake of pure entertainment, but now I can only see what they are lacking. I see the lack of character, the lack of insight, the lack of strength in their words, I see the lack of care, I see the hack half-assed metaphor written to trick the author and his audience into thinking there is an ounce of intellectuality in what is on the page, and it makes me feel so empty when I read it. You, along with the greats, use your words to give such purpose to the vocabulary e develop through our lives, forcing us to challenge our concepts of conventional thought and dig deeper in a word’s meaning or the ideas behind it.
---“James Joyce wrote a book where each sentence, each word, had more than on meaning, defying the rules of literature until what came out was almost beyond English. Bukowski spoke with such unforgiving honesty that it changed the world’s view of beat generation in one fell swoop. Ginsberg’s poem “Howl” sang with such uninhibited beauty- simultaneously falling in love with and criticizing his generation- that the words “starry dynamo” are still the only words that I feel give justice to the night sky; its vast emptiness, as well as its daunting beauty. Kafka’s stories echoing the plight of man’s need to remain trapped under crippling formalities, speaking with such a resounding effectiveness, gave light, at least in the sense of sympathy, to those helplessly tied into a world which they do not long for. To these artists, no amount of talking could do justice, for their legacies speak for themselves.
---“See, I’ve been thinking a lot lately, I know you hear me talk about my legacy a lot, hear me complaining about how the crowd doesn’t respect me, but that is only because I see this sort of…lacking…from almost every other superstar in there and it makes me wonder what I need to do to prove that I am better than the majority of the superstars who walk onto into that ring and pretend to be a ‘wrestler’. Then I realized something, I’m not much better, I go out there and for the last couple of months, I have been giving sub-par performances worthy of a mid-carder or a curtain jerker. See, I could be so much better. I’m not getting anywhere and I fear that I might be the biggest reason why. I’m fucking it all up by sabotaging myself. I’ve been cutting off my steady hands, because I can’t stand the idea that one part of me can remain still, while the rest of me never stops moving, never stops lashing out, never stops shaking. I’ve been ignoring what could save me, because I’m too use to wading through shit and accepting this mess as a part of what will always be my life. To change it now to something almost pleasant would leave me unfamiliar, putting me at a disadvantage. So, often enough, when I have the chance to move onto better things, for some reason, I choose here. I’m sleeping through it all, I’m making excuses, I’m ignoring advice, I am doing everything I can to effectively fuck up every chance I have of getting out of here, because it’s easier to sit at the bottom than it is to keep from falling on your way up. I’m not trying, at least I don’t think that I’m trying. It just kind of happens but I know why every time, because I know what it’s like to get some distance just to collapse and find yourself sitting at square one, and I don’t want to feel that ever again. I have spent so many years this way, but now it is time to grow up and become something better.
---“See, I’ve been broken. When I came in, I fought tooth and nail to get my head above water and become a well-defined individual not only in that ring, but backstage. I fought in cluster fuck after cluster fuck, losing and winning whenever I could manage it, but I was working my way up, but that didn’t matter to the people who ran, and now currently run again, this shit hole. They didn’t want me, they wanted more hacky, half-assed performers like Sarah Twilight, Zombie McMorris, and Odin to fill their card, they didn’t want anything to do with me. I kicked up dust, I fought hard, and I ended careers, I ENDED CAREERS! There are people who literally left this company after facing me. I was dominance, I was the wrestler that this company need, but they didn’t want me, they pushed me off while I watched asshole after asshole shoot up the ladder pass me and get offered a shot at whatever title they wanted. Do you know how defeating that is? To know you are putting everything you have out there and seeing it smacked down in favor of these worthless pieces of shit? So, eventually, I stopped trying, I stopped caring, I prepare last minute and just come in, do whatever I could manage, and then just walk away unaffected by the outcome, because to me, it didn’t matter anymore. I was dead from the neck up, I was sick of everything and everyone in this company, and when they finally did give me a shot at the number-one contender’s spot for the World title, I just didn’t feel anything, I was numb, completely disconnected from the whole experience. After I lost that match, I left, I couldn’t take it anymore. WCF had killed my love for wrestling and I needed to get out. Does, that sound weak? Yes, but I’m not scared of admitting my weaknesses to you, because I am the only one who will admit them anymore.
---“When I did come back, I had hoped things would be different, I felt better about things, but not nearly as confident or as high-hoped as before. I wanted to prove that I wasn’t going to be pushed around, so I did the unthinkable, I attacked my only friend in the business, Blake Updegraff IV, just to prove that things were changing. I don’t mind telling you that I always felt bad, but I never regretted it. To have regretted it would have meant looking into the past, and I had no interest in that. I wanted to keep my eyes forwards and focus on my new purpose, to change the industry as a whole and to show that no matter the number of ignorant fuckers watching, nor the number of hacks sitting in the back, that true talent would always shine through. Though, as you all know, that isn’t how it went down. It went even worse than last time, I was buried all over again, sitting under the weight of the gazes that were all still planted on the over-rated and shallow superstars that still occupy the top spots to this day. I’m not even sure how long I waited until I left, but I left ashamed. I had nothing to give and every week I could feel myself drifting into the same state of apathy I had been stuck in the first time. I was pathetic and slowly losing touch.
---“I’ve loved wrestling since I was a small child. My uncle would watch it with me and it infatuated me endlessly. Every week, the same night, the same time, watching the same faces, week after week, I was glued to that program and there was nothing that the rest of my family would say that could have stopped me from watching it. I knew, even at such a young age, that it was the blossoming of a personal passion, a romance between me and wrestling if you will, and that I was going to use everything in my power to be a part of it. So, now, fast forward; heartbroken wrestler- dreams crushed and spirits destroyed- leaves his first love, absolutely uncaring if the industry burnt to the ground the next day. In fact, there were some days I hoped it burned down! There was no love there anymore, this company had completely destroyed it. I became a yuppie rich fuck, running my dad’s old company, indulging in expensive dinners, spiraling out in alcoholic binges, just trying to forget, always trying to forget. My life became one giant fog of apathy as I fought to hold onto some sense of purpose without wrestling in my life, but there wasn’t any purpose, it was simply empty existence. My smile was empty, my mind was empty, my life was empty. WCF took away my purpose.
---“At one point I find myself drawn to the television, to take up the old act of watching my once beloved sport. I tried to hold out for as long as I could, refusing to watch, keeping my television off until I knew it was over, but eventually it became too much as I had to turn it on. When I did, I saw something splendid, S-PAC tearing down the ring of WCF. It was as if the image was meant for me and me alone, watching as it was dismantled piece by piece, signifying the inevitable destruction of what had destroyed me. It filled me with…something…not hope, but something that sparked deep inside of me that had been dead for a long time. I didn’t feel the need to come back just yet, but that was when the urge began to grow.
---“It wasn’t until I found my car spinning out of control after racing down the road at an ungodly speed due to intense inebriation that I knew that I needed to come back, and when I did, there was no passion, no love, no hope, just the need for structure, like coming back to a lover because no one else will tolerate you, settling with someone you know will take you back, knowing you are too broken for anything or anyone else to love. I put on this façade like I was ready to change the world, but in all honesty, I had no game plan. My win record has improved, but I can’t seem to find any real solace. I am just drifting from one spot to another, finding most of my time spent in mid-card matches thrown together last minute, because I have a contractual obligation to perform a certain amount of dates. It was a different kind of defeat. Though, unlike the last few times, this time I could see my failure, I could see my performance slipping into this sort of stage of unbelievable mediocrity, but that did not mean I was ready to address it. For a while, I kept rationalizing that it was just ring rust, and when I couldn’t do that, I rationalized so many other half-wit excuses for what I was doing, but now, now I can admit that I have been wrestling with a sort of ‘lacking’ nature that I have been accusing so many of these other wrestlers of.
---“So, here I am, standing here and professing to you the thoughts that have been filling my head for the last year or so. Why? You may ask, because it is about to change. No more half-assed performances, no more bullshitting, no more mediocrity; I’m going to be the superstar that breaks the barrier and starts trying for once. No more stupid jokes, no more petty rivalries, no more immaturity, no more letting my guard down. Let the rest of them take the easy road, being completely devoid of depth and true ideas. Let them run around like chickens with their heads cut off, let them lower the bar, because I am going to use that to my advantage. I’m not looking to change the world anymore, I’m not looking to try and improve the conditions, I’m not going to educate the fans, I’m not going to try and raise the bar; I’m going to start using the world’s weaknesses against it. I don’t want to fix anything, I want to break everything.”
Benjamin paused for a moment and reached into his pocket, pulling out a pack of cigarettes. He opens the box and slides out a single cylindrical fag from the pack and places it in his mouth, letting it rest on his lips while he reaches into his other pocket and pulls out a plain bic lighter, lighting the end of the tobacco filled menace before placing both the lighter and the pack back into their respective pockets.
“See, I haven’t needed a cigarette in about four years. In fact, I haven’t even thought about smoking in about three of those years, but sometimes, when something or someone drives you close to madness, you just got to have a light, am I right? I mean, there is something about inhaling self-destruction that sets the mind at ease, you know what I mean?
---“Now, Doctor, you managed to retain your US title last week, and I applaud you, but let it be known that you are the reason I’ve come to my recent realization. See, I was expecting the match to be a bit closer than it was, I wanted you gasping for breath, ready to collapse, and half-dead by the end of our match. Granted, it was close, but not close enough. As I was walking out of that arena, I came to terms with the fact that my heart wasn’t where it should have been, I was letting the world bury me in its ever so cramped coffin, and it is important that I have my heart where it needs to be at all times. We’re both men of intellect, but where you are a man of facts and science, I am a poet, as I have mentioned before. Take this cigarette for example; you would tell me that it is destroying my body, doing permanent damage, but when I look at this cigarette, I see one of the few things keeping me alive. I am a man of thought and philosophy, understand what life makes of us while you understand what makes life.
---“So, understand this, this time around, it will not be the same fight. My world has been set right and I have a new goal in mind. I can’t get your title, but I can get you, and as far as your partners are concerned, I don’t think either of us think they will be much of a problem, right? I mean, come on, The Wild Gangsters, their name is most fitting towards the extremity of their banal existence, wouldn’t you agree?”
Benjamin smiles devilishly and looks about the room.
“I imagine you are wondering why I am here, right? What is this room? What significance does it hold? Well, I am not sure who owned this place previously, but I happened across it and it struck me as almost literary, wouldn’t you say so? Almost like the house of a dead muse that was once trapped by an artist. Scenes of passionate love and passionate violence taking place before it was abandoned and left to decay slowly in time. What a fitting setting for my phoenix-like rebirth into the sport I once loved.
---“At one point, we all lose our inspiration, and most of us aren’t smart enough to stop until we’ve found it again, so we push on, slowly letting our artistry dribble down our legs as we struggle to make something from nothing. A dead muse is the curse of all artists, but a dead muse does not mean that the artist is gone, a new muse can always come; either in the form of anger, of happiness, of struggle, of tragedy, of bliss, or a thousand other pieces all stemming from the human condition. I had murdered my muse YEARS ago, and I had walked on, trying to ignore the corpse that dragged behind me, but now I’ve been cut lose and I have found something even stronger than what had once been my absolute truth, I have found a need for revenge and I’m ready to get it, not just on your Doctor, but on everyone.”
“Virginia Woolf, would you have survived the modern world or would you have been swallowed up by the constantly shrinking attentions span and the growing sensationalism in indulgent romance novels? You were a mind of unparalleled talent, speaking with the articulate nature of a Walt Whitman, but with the complexity of William Faulkner. You interpretation of the modern philosopher in “To the Lighthouse” held me captive for days as I could feel myself connecting with the character on a deeper level than I thought possible; feeling his fear sitting just short of true accomplishment, unsure of his stance to the rest of the world, constantly seeking acceptance from those around him, all while trying to expand his mind to see the world in a light that so few truly see it.
---“That is your beauty, Virginia, you get in the head of your characters and explain what they are thinking with such great clarity and weight that it seems as if their world is teetering on a mere strand. I am constantly sucked into your work, reading over the same line five or ten times to try and grasp the immense brilliance behind it. It has ruined lesser authors for me. I use to be able enjoy the occasion ‘commercial’ book for the sake of pure entertainment, but now I can only see what they are lacking. I see the lack of character, the lack of insight, the lack of strength in their words, I see the lack of care, I see the hack half-assed metaphor written to trick the author and his audience into thinking there is an ounce of intellectuality in what is on the page, and it makes me feel so empty when I read it. You, along with the greats, use your words to give such purpose to the vocabulary e develop through our lives, forcing us to challenge our concepts of conventional thought and dig deeper in a word’s meaning or the ideas behind it.
---“James Joyce wrote a book where each sentence, each word, had more than on meaning, defying the rules of literature until what came out was almost beyond English. Bukowski spoke with such unforgiving honesty that it changed the world’s view of beat generation in one fell swoop. Ginsberg’s poem “Howl” sang with such uninhibited beauty- simultaneously falling in love with and criticizing his generation- that the words “starry dynamo” are still the only words that I feel give justice to the night sky; its vast emptiness, as well as its daunting beauty. Kafka’s stories echoing the plight of man’s need to remain trapped under crippling formalities, speaking with such a resounding effectiveness, gave light, at least in the sense of sympathy, to those helplessly tied into a world which they do not long for. To these artists, no amount of talking could do justice, for their legacies speak for themselves.
---“See, I’ve been thinking a lot lately, I know you hear me talk about my legacy a lot, hear me complaining about how the crowd doesn’t respect me, but that is only because I see this sort of…lacking…from almost every other superstar in there and it makes me wonder what I need to do to prove that I am better than the majority of the superstars who walk onto into that ring and pretend to be a ‘wrestler’. Then I realized something, I’m not much better, I go out there and for the last couple of months, I have been giving sub-par performances worthy of a mid-carder or a curtain jerker. See, I could be so much better. I’m not getting anywhere and I fear that I might be the biggest reason why. I’m fucking it all up by sabotaging myself. I’ve been cutting off my steady hands, because I can’t stand the idea that one part of me can remain still, while the rest of me never stops moving, never stops lashing out, never stops shaking. I’ve been ignoring what could save me, because I’m too use to wading through shit and accepting this mess as a part of what will always be my life. To change it now to something almost pleasant would leave me unfamiliar, putting me at a disadvantage. So, often enough, when I have the chance to move onto better things, for some reason, I choose here. I’m sleeping through it all, I’m making excuses, I’m ignoring advice, I am doing everything I can to effectively fuck up every chance I have of getting out of here, because it’s easier to sit at the bottom than it is to keep from falling on your way up. I’m not trying, at least I don’t think that I’m trying. It just kind of happens but I know why every time, because I know what it’s like to get some distance just to collapse and find yourself sitting at square one, and I don’t want to feel that ever again. I have spent so many years this way, but now it is time to grow up and become something better.
---“See, I’ve been broken. When I came in, I fought tooth and nail to get my head above water and become a well-defined individual not only in that ring, but backstage. I fought in cluster fuck after cluster fuck, losing and winning whenever I could manage it, but I was working my way up, but that didn’t matter to the people who ran, and now currently run again, this shit hole. They didn’t want me, they wanted more hacky, half-assed performers like Sarah Twilight, Zombie McMorris, and Odin to fill their card, they didn’t want anything to do with me. I kicked up dust, I fought hard, and I ended careers, I ENDED CAREERS! There are people who literally left this company after facing me. I was dominance, I was the wrestler that this company need, but they didn’t want me, they pushed me off while I watched asshole after asshole shoot up the ladder pass me and get offered a shot at whatever title they wanted. Do you know how defeating that is? To know you are putting everything you have out there and seeing it smacked down in favor of these worthless pieces of shit? So, eventually, I stopped trying, I stopped caring, I prepare last minute and just come in, do whatever I could manage, and then just walk away unaffected by the outcome, because to me, it didn’t matter anymore. I was dead from the neck up, I was sick of everything and everyone in this company, and when they finally did give me a shot at the number-one contender’s spot for the World title, I just didn’t feel anything, I was numb, completely disconnected from the whole experience. After I lost that match, I left, I couldn’t take it anymore. WCF had killed my love for wrestling and I needed to get out. Does, that sound weak? Yes, but I’m not scared of admitting my weaknesses to you, because I am the only one who will admit them anymore.
---“When I did come back, I had hoped things would be different, I felt better about things, but not nearly as confident or as high-hoped as before. I wanted to prove that I wasn’t going to be pushed around, so I did the unthinkable, I attacked my only friend in the business, Blake Updegraff IV, just to prove that things were changing. I don’t mind telling you that I always felt bad, but I never regretted it. To have regretted it would have meant looking into the past, and I had no interest in that. I wanted to keep my eyes forwards and focus on my new purpose, to change the industry as a whole and to show that no matter the number of ignorant fuckers watching, nor the number of hacks sitting in the back, that true talent would always shine through. Though, as you all know, that isn’t how it went down. It went even worse than last time, I was buried all over again, sitting under the weight of the gazes that were all still planted on the over-rated and shallow superstars that still occupy the top spots to this day. I’m not even sure how long I waited until I left, but I left ashamed. I had nothing to give and every week I could feel myself drifting into the same state of apathy I had been stuck in the first time. I was pathetic and slowly losing touch.
---“I’ve loved wrestling since I was a small child. My uncle would watch it with me and it infatuated me endlessly. Every week, the same night, the same time, watching the same faces, week after week, I was glued to that program and there was nothing that the rest of my family would say that could have stopped me from watching it. I knew, even at such a young age, that it was the blossoming of a personal passion, a romance between me and wrestling if you will, and that I was going to use everything in my power to be a part of it. So, now, fast forward; heartbroken wrestler- dreams crushed and spirits destroyed- leaves his first love, absolutely uncaring if the industry burnt to the ground the next day. In fact, there were some days I hoped it burned down! There was no love there anymore, this company had completely destroyed it. I became a yuppie rich fuck, running my dad’s old company, indulging in expensive dinners, spiraling out in alcoholic binges, just trying to forget, always trying to forget. My life became one giant fog of apathy as I fought to hold onto some sense of purpose without wrestling in my life, but there wasn’t any purpose, it was simply empty existence. My smile was empty, my mind was empty, my life was empty. WCF took away my purpose.
---“At one point I find myself drawn to the television, to take up the old act of watching my once beloved sport. I tried to hold out for as long as I could, refusing to watch, keeping my television off until I knew it was over, but eventually it became too much as I had to turn it on. When I did, I saw something splendid, S-PAC tearing down the ring of WCF. It was as if the image was meant for me and me alone, watching as it was dismantled piece by piece, signifying the inevitable destruction of what had destroyed me. It filled me with…something…not hope, but something that sparked deep inside of me that had been dead for a long time. I didn’t feel the need to come back just yet, but that was when the urge began to grow.
---“It wasn’t until I found my car spinning out of control after racing down the road at an ungodly speed due to intense inebriation that I knew that I needed to come back, and when I did, there was no passion, no love, no hope, just the need for structure, like coming back to a lover because no one else will tolerate you, settling with someone you know will take you back, knowing you are too broken for anything or anyone else to love. I put on this façade like I was ready to change the world, but in all honesty, I had no game plan. My win record has improved, but I can’t seem to find any real solace. I am just drifting from one spot to another, finding most of my time spent in mid-card matches thrown together last minute, because I have a contractual obligation to perform a certain amount of dates. It was a different kind of defeat. Though, unlike the last few times, this time I could see my failure, I could see my performance slipping into this sort of stage of unbelievable mediocrity, but that did not mean I was ready to address it. For a while, I kept rationalizing that it was just ring rust, and when I couldn’t do that, I rationalized so many other half-wit excuses for what I was doing, but now, now I can admit that I have been wrestling with a sort of ‘lacking’ nature that I have been accusing so many of these other wrestlers of.
---“So, here I am, standing here and professing to you the thoughts that have been filling my head for the last year or so. Why? You may ask, because it is about to change. No more half-assed performances, no more bullshitting, no more mediocrity; I’m going to be the superstar that breaks the barrier and starts trying for once. No more stupid jokes, no more petty rivalries, no more immaturity, no more letting my guard down. Let the rest of them take the easy road, being completely devoid of depth and true ideas. Let them run around like chickens with their heads cut off, let them lower the bar, because I am going to use that to my advantage. I’m not looking to change the world anymore, I’m not looking to try and improve the conditions, I’m not going to educate the fans, I’m not going to try and raise the bar; I’m going to start using the world’s weaknesses against it. I don’t want to fix anything, I want to break everything.”
Benjamin paused for a moment and reached into his pocket, pulling out a pack of cigarettes. He opens the box and slides out a single cylindrical fag from the pack and places it in his mouth, letting it rest on his lips while he reaches into his other pocket and pulls out a plain bic lighter, lighting the end of the tobacco filled menace before placing both the lighter and the pack back into their respective pockets.
“See, I haven’t needed a cigarette in about four years. In fact, I haven’t even thought about smoking in about three of those years, but sometimes, when something or someone drives you close to madness, you just got to have a light, am I right? I mean, there is something about inhaling self-destruction that sets the mind at ease, you know what I mean?
---“Now, Doctor, you managed to retain your US title last week, and I applaud you, but let it be known that you are the reason I’ve come to my recent realization. See, I was expecting the match to be a bit closer than it was, I wanted you gasping for breath, ready to collapse, and half-dead by the end of our match. Granted, it was close, but not close enough. As I was walking out of that arena, I came to terms with the fact that my heart wasn’t where it should have been, I was letting the world bury me in its ever so cramped coffin, and it is important that I have my heart where it needs to be at all times. We’re both men of intellect, but where you are a man of facts and science, I am a poet, as I have mentioned before. Take this cigarette for example; you would tell me that it is destroying my body, doing permanent damage, but when I look at this cigarette, I see one of the few things keeping me alive. I am a man of thought and philosophy, understand what life makes of us while you understand what makes life.
---“So, understand this, this time around, it will not be the same fight. My world has been set right and I have a new goal in mind. I can’t get your title, but I can get you, and as far as your partners are concerned, I don’t think either of us think they will be much of a problem, right? I mean, come on, The Wild Gangsters, their name is most fitting towards the extremity of their banal existence, wouldn’t you agree?”
Benjamin smiles devilishly and looks about the room.
“I imagine you are wondering why I am here, right? What is this room? What significance does it hold? Well, I am not sure who owned this place previously, but I happened across it and it struck me as almost literary, wouldn’t you say so? Almost like the house of a dead muse that was once trapped by an artist. Scenes of passionate love and passionate violence taking place before it was abandoned and left to decay slowly in time. What a fitting setting for my phoenix-like rebirth into the sport I once loved.
---“At one point, we all lose our inspiration, and most of us aren’t smart enough to stop until we’ve found it again, so we push on, slowly letting our artistry dribble down our legs as we struggle to make something from nothing. A dead muse is the curse of all artists, but a dead muse does not mean that the artist is gone, a new muse can always come; either in the form of anger, of happiness, of struggle, of tragedy, of bliss, or a thousand other pieces all stemming from the human condition. I had murdered my muse YEARS ago, and I had walked on, trying to ignore the corpse that dragged behind me, but now I’ve been cut lose and I have found something even stronger than what had once been my absolute truth, I have found a need for revenge and I’m ready to get it, not just on your Doctor, but on everyone.”
