《欢迎来到夜谷》作为一部泛都市传说类型的播客作品，以其超现实而又不乏黑色幽默的独特世界观与故事情节在世界范围内收获了巨大的人气。出于更好的宣传和推荐的目的，我荣幸的进行了46集及之后部分的翻译，此后也会继续在这个论坛发布更新。
由于译者水平有限不能保证译文精确符合原文意思，如果有误希望大家及时指出。在翻译时文中的人名和机构名称为了避免误解而直接使用原文；另外由于原节目中的开头和结尾内容时效性明显，不适宜这个更新频率以年计数的论坛的一般模式，因此在这里不做翻译，仅保留最后的今日谚语，敬请谅解。
由于夜谷节目发布的平台众多且多数平台有幸未已被屏蔽，在这里就不逐一列举收听地址。请自行前往官网内公布的平台对照收听。
另外本文所用台本原文及同人创作图片来自官方站点

250.Kevin父亲
我不制定规则，我只是兴高采烈地执行它们，尽管完全没有必要。
欢迎来到夜谷。
没有什么Ralph's，只有Lauren修女的储物室，没有什么Ralph's后面的大坑，只有Lauren修女的泥土拥抱。没有什么夜谷。只有Lauren修女的子女。
我们被爱着。我们被爱着。我们被爱着。
对不起，要摆脱Lauren修女恶意的影响真的很难。我们生活在两个现实中。在一个现实中万象生平，而在另一现实中我们已经走上了岌岌可危的不归路。
我从两方面播报。扰乱夜谷的冲突仍在继续，但是是以一种缓慢而古怪的方式继续。Lauren修女站在曾经是格橹公园的高台上，她的卷须蜿蜒着穿过了城镇的每个部分和很多人的身体。
建筑物像肺一样膨胀又收缩。树木融化了。夜谷的人们仍在英勇战斗，但就像是画中的战斗一样，模糊而二维。
那个男孩，年轻版的漠崖的Kevin，站在Lauren修女身边，牵着她的手。他脸上露出用力的表情，似乎在他的体内也正发生着一场激烈的战斗，而他的身体动弹不得。
Lauren上次来夜谷，是作为StrexCorp公司的代表，以资本主义的名义来征服我们的。而这次不同。她以一种更加奇怪也更加强大的力量战斗。我不认为她会把我们这里变成另一个漠崖。如果要说的话，她正在把我们变成她身体的一部分。她正在进化，而我们是她改变的原材料。
Lauren修女说话时，声音从她身体的各个部分，也就是从整个城市发出。“我已经厌倦了，”她说，“要打败你们太容易了。你们的失败对我而言并没有预想之中的那么美味。”
但还没有完全失败。还有一个计划。
我们的未来寄托在了Mr.Prescott第五期先修英语课班上Alejandra Núñez, Ronnie Sharma和Nanako Barnes的身上，他们也被称作图书馆少年。这些孩子们追随着Tamika Flynn，直面图书管理员并取得了胜利。现在他们必须面对也许比图书管理员还要恐怖15%的存在，一个扭曲宇宙的神。
孩子们跟我讲，他们不能告诉我计划的具体细节，只能说这涉及到了用绳索和抓钩从空中穿越危险的城市街道，针对Lauren修女的弱点游击攻击，抓捕Kevin，然后在Lauren修女掉以轻心的时候袭击她。就在今天中午，她绝对无法预料到。作为计划的一部分，我被要求制造干扰，在Lauren修女和Kevin注意到之前为他们争取时间。他们告诉我，在计划完成之前，一定不能让任何人注意到此事，所以我发誓会保密，不会向任何人泄露天机。
当然，除了你们，我的听众们。我永远不会向你们隐瞒任何事情。我花了很多时间考虑如何实施干扰。这就是我想出的主意。
看那边！
啊，对不起，稍微有点喘不过气来。我们看看有没有作用。
哦不。虽然可能有人会说这是史上最好的分散注意力的方式，让人们从重要的事情上移开视线。但Lauren修女不知怎么似乎知道了这个计划。她躲开了，全世界也跟着她躲开了。
她怒瞪了一眼，全世界为之昏厥。她甚至不需要战斗。夜谷就是她厚重，淤泥般的心脏，她布满斑点的肺。
她把我们变成了她疾病的一部分。“我就是宇宙本身。”她嚎叫着，声音像空袭警报一样从四面八方同时传来，“与我战斗就像与创造存在战斗一样，可笑的尝试。”
图书馆少年们被Lauren修女的无人机抓走了。那曾经是我们自己的市民，但现在变成了没有眼睛的粉红色海绵状团块，不停尖叫着“救救我，我还有感觉呢！我身上一些重要的部分还没有被污染！我还有灵魂！”同时滑稽的向着少年们过去。
少年们英勇的反抗着，还是被抓住并扔进了镇上的监狱。监狱里现在覆盖着一层苍白，脱皮的皮肤。
男孩看着这一切发生，牵着Lauren修女的手，被包裹在她无数油腻的翅膀中。突然一种感觉摄住了他，他转过身，对着Lauren修女动手了。他用尽整个灵魂的力量抵抗她的影响，把一把刀刺入了她的身体。她一眼都没有看他，就用触须卷起他的身体，将他吸收进了她的存在中。男孩现在站在她脚边，触须与他的皮肤融合了，令人作呕的跳动着。他眼睛翻白。他的手挥舞着，像是在弹奏一架看不见的钢琴。哦，夜谷，这是最令人绝望的时刻。我们不仅被击败了，也被改变了。我们不再是我们了。
更糟糕的是，Kevin来了，从人群之中现身，大摇大摆的走上了他胜利的领奖台。他环顾着这座终于对他俯首称臣的城市。经过多年的抵抗之后，我们终于束手就擒了。他看到保龄球馆被静脉，动脉和恶性肿瘤包裹着。他看到市政厅变成了一条覆盖着白色绒毛的舌头。他看到我自己的广播站，我亲爱的广播电台，现在完全变成了脚指甲一样的东西。他看到了他胜利的所有证明。
然后他转身看向那个男孩，他回来就是来找这个男孩，这个年轻版本的他自己。他看着这个无助的男孩，露出了微笑。这里鸦雀无声，但某处，雷声，某处，落雪，遥远的某处，天气。

(“Cutting Teeth” by Priscilla Snow)

好吧，老实说我不知道在这该干什么。通常当我播报天气的时候，同时会发生重大的战斗或是高潮事件，然后等我们回来时问题就已经解决了。此时我的视角会转向过去，告诉你我们美丽的小镇如何又度过了危险的一天。
有些人误以为是天气播报解决了问题，但实际上不是这样的。天气播报同时与解决问题同时发生，然后我利用我专业的播报技巧，告诉你们发生了什么。但是，这一次，一切都或多或少的保持着我们离开时的原状。
男孩，仍旧被俘虏着。Lauren修女，仍旧占据上风。而Kevin，仍旧微笑着。
没有胜利视角的转变，只有一场无休无止持续至今的恐怖行军。而此时此刻，Kevin转向了男孩。他跪下来，仍旧微笑着，握住了男孩的手。他轻轻地将Lauren修女的卷须从男孩的皮肤上解开，把男孩从台上领了下来。Lauren修女的双眼凝视着宇宙，似乎对我们小镇的垂死挣扎无动于衷。
男孩看着Kevin。Kevin对男孩微笑着。我不喜欢这个笑容，但我从没喜欢过Kevin的笑容。
“上次我在这的时候，”Kevin说，“我说过这种情况是我一个人无法处理的。而我是对的。我也是错的。因为我能以我自己自己处理此事，但我不能只以一个我自己处理此事。”
“我很抱歉，”男孩说，“但我不知道你是谁。”与Lauren修女精神和肉体上的接触似乎让他失去了记忆。
他茫然地看着这个世界，仿佛那是一本用他在中学时只学过几课的语言写成的书，像是他应该认得，但却不认得。
“没关系的。”Kevin说，“因为我所记得的对我们两个而言就足够了。我没怎么提起过我的父亲。他是个风趣的人，但也是个严厉的人。他是个公平的人，尽管我不总能理解他最看重的是什么。我想他已经尽了最大努力了。事实上，我知道他做到了，因为在这一刻，我对他的理解比任何人对自己父亲的理解都要深。”
“好吧，”男孩说。他显然不知道为什么这个人要跟他说这些。
他说，“我没有父亲。”他并不是以一种悲惨的语调说这句话，而像是回答别人问他现在几点。
“啊，”Kevin说，“但是你有。我的童年是一个奇怪的谜，我永远无法解开。而你在这为我人生的难题提供了一个巧妙的解决方案。”
听众们。我开始明白Kevin为什么要来这了。我不确定我是否喜欢这样，但这确实有一定的对称性。人生很少是公平的，但通常是平衡的。
“你在说什么？”男孩说。
“你的名字是Kevin，我是你的父亲。”Kevin说，他是Kevin的父亲，“我是。”
“你是。”男孩说，他是Kevin。
“是的，”Kevin的父亲说。“我会足够好的抚养你，或者够好了，或者好的够了，你知道的。我会陪你渡过难关的。”
他看向Lauren修女。她终于低下了目光。她的卷须蜿蜒的穿过了夜谷的地面，砖石和血肉，她灿烂的微笑笼罩上了阴霾。
“我以为我已经把你搞定了。”她说。
“你错了。”Kevin和Kevin的父亲同时说。
Kevin的父亲站着很高，而Kevin尽可能的挺高了身板，还是赶不上他的父亲。还赶不上
“大错特错。”人群中传来一个声音。
Mr.Prescott第五期先修英语课班上Alejandra Núñez, Ronnie Sharma和Nanako Barnes，也就是图书馆少年们走了出来。
“我以为你们被关进监狱了。”我在广播室里说。因为这正是此时此刻正在发生的，我现在才意识到我可以积极的参与到这些活动之中。
“我们确实被关了，”Ronnie说，“但后来这位友善的老太太把我们放出来了。”
“我才不老呢，天呐，我才只有二十出头。”Tamika Flynn说。
“她真的非常大胆，策划了一次刺激的越狱。”Nonoco说，“我不知道这么高龄的人还能有这种本事。”
“唉。”Tamika叹息。但她看起来确实因为又一次参加了一场冒险而神采奕奕。她一手拿着绳子，另一只手拿着一本艾莉·史密斯的《秋天》。那是英国的初版，用工作喷灯印刷的。
“重点是，”Alejandra对Lauren修女说，“你必须和我们打一架。”
“还有我。”Tamika说着，从艾莉·史密斯那脱欧时代的椭圆肖像中射出了一股凶猛的火焰。
“还有我。”Kevin的父亲说。
Kevin，那个男孩，不确定的环顾着四周。一下子出现了太多新的信息，但他做出了决定。“还有我。”他说。
Lauren修女笑了。群山也跟着她笑起来，峡谷和山口发出空洞的轰鸣。
她向Kevin挥拳，但Kevin躲开了。Lauren修女的脸担忧的闪烁了一下。
她又挥出一拳，什么也没打中。街道咆哮起来。
“我从以前就认识你。”Kevin的父亲说，“我知道你身上的什么地方还有人类的弱点。”
“可笑！”Lauren修女叫道。她没有笑。
Lauren修女的无人机飞来。但是其中一些停下了，然后人类的面孔开始从他们粉红色的肿块之间显现出来。“我们不能呼吸，也求死不得。”无人机里的人说，“我们被困在呼吸之间的瞬间。这是无休无止的折磨。”其他夜谷居民对他们竖起大拇指，表示同情。
“不，我是个神。”Lauren修女喊着。
“是的，”Kevin的父亲说，“就像所有神一样，你是由你的崇拜者的信仰来定义的。”
Lauren修女的脸因愤怒而扭曲，然后她皱着眉抬起头来，再度凝视着宇宙。
“是的，好吧，去他的！”她说。“反正宇宙对我而言太小了。”这么说着，她升入了天空。星辰像一扇门对她敞开。她走了进去。她回头看了一眼脚下的城市。
“有一天我会回来的，”她说，“或者可能我不会，有待决定。”然后星辰在她背后关闭了。她走了。
城镇渐渐自己恢复了正常，人们摆脱了Lauren修女的影响，建筑，土地和树木恢复了原状。一切都恢复了原样。除了那些死亡，受伤或是失踪的人，人数相当之多。
在这中间，是一个男孩和他的父亲。男孩牵着父亲的手。男孩牵着他自己的手。
Kevin牵着Kevin的手。Kevin和Kevin一起走回家，即便不能一直幸福的生活，至少可以一直活下去。
Kevin父子穿过传送门之后，Carlos拔掉了传送门的插头。他认为尽管为了科学值得付出一些代价，但不值得付出一切作为代价。科学必须为人类服务，而不是与之相反。它是一种工具，而不是目标。哦，他说传送门关闭时发出了很酷的“啪”的一声。
图书馆少年们，他们希望这么称呼自己，宣布成了一支新的少年民兵队，以保护夜谷免受再漠崖或是任何其他不速之客的入侵。Tamika Flynn知道如何领导少年民兵队，她主动提出担任导师。但图书馆少年们发布了一则声明表示，呃，没关系，不了谢谢，女士。
夜谷的前景如何？我说不上来。我们的未来都是一块空白的石板。我们的过去是一本我们用谁都看不懂的语言写下的日记。而我们的现在是透过一扇模糊的脏窗户看到的风景。具体来说，对我而言，是演播室的这扇脏窗户。透过窗户我能看到Amber Akinye在教她儿子骑自行车。我能看到Michelle Wynn和Maureen Johnson正带着她们贵宾蠼螋混种犬还是便便假发散步。哦，我还能看到一辆神秘的厢式货车，上面有个迷宫的标志，一个不高的男人和一个不矮的男人正在车里，装着一些不知名的货物，驶向沙荒地。简而言之，我看到了这个小镇的日常，它经历了很多，但仍旧保持着它的原貌，它的本来面目。
我看到了夜谷，我爱着它。
晚安，
我最爱的小镇。
晚安。

今日谚语：给我你最好的一击。诶呦！好吧，那实际上很糟糕。给我你最糟的一击。

This post has been edited by mushroomliang: 2024-06-18, 04:20

250.Father Kevin
I don't make the rules. I just gleefully enforce them even though I don't have to.
Welcome to Night Vale.
There is no Ralphs. There is Mother Lauren's Pantry. There is no hole out back of the Ralphs. There is Mother Lauren's Soil Embrace. There is no Night Vale. There is Mother Lauren's Brood. We are loved. We are loved. We are loved.
Sorry. It is difficult to break free of the malign influence of Mother Lauren. We live in two realities. One in which all is well. And one in which we are teetering over an edge from which we cannot return. I speak from both realities.
I speak from both sides of my mouth. The conflict that roiled Night Vale continues, but in a strange, slow way. Mother Lauren stands on a podium in what once was Grove Park, her tendrils snaking through every part of the town and through many of the people.
The buildings expand and contract like lungs. The trees are melting. The people of Night Vale still bravely fight, but like people fighting in a painting, smudgy and two-dimensional.
The boy, who is the younger version of Kevin from Desert Bluffs, stands next to Mother Lauren, holding her hand. His face shows exertion, as if the greatest battle is inside his body, but he cannot move.
The last time Lauren came to Night Vale, she came as a representative of StrexCorp, here to conquer us in the name of capitalism. This time is different. This time she fights with stranger, stronger stuff. I don't think she is turning us into another Desert Bluffs. I think, if anything, she is making all of us part of her body. She is transcending and we are fodder for her change.
Mother Lauren speaks and her voice rings out from every part of her body, which is the entire city. “I am bored already of this, she says. It was too easy to defeat you. Your loss is not as delicious to me as I had hoped.”
But all is not yet lost. There is a plan. Our future lies with Alejandra Núñez, Ronnie Sharma, and Nanako Barnes of Mr. Prescott's 5th period AP English class, otherwise known as the Library Tweens. These brave children have followed into Mika Flynn's footsteps, coming face to face with a librarian and emerging victorious. Now they must come face to face with something maybe 15% more horrifying than a librarian, a twisted cosmic god.
The kids told me they could not give me the specifics of the plan, only that it involved using ropes and grappling hooks to cross the dangerous city streets through the air, guerrilla-style strikes on Mother Lauren's weak points, capturing Kevin, and finally attacking Mother Lauren when she least suspects it. At noon today, she will never see it coming. As part of the plan, I have been asked to create a distraction so that Mother Lauren and Kevin won't notice what they are doing until it is too late. They told me it is vitally important that no one notice until the plan has been completed and so I have been sworn to secrecy. A secrecy I will break for no one.
Except of course, you, my listeners. I could never keep anything from you. I thought a lot about what a good distraction would be. And here is what I have come up with.
Look over there!
So, sorry, little out of breath. We'll see if that worked.
Oh no. Despite what some might say is the best distraction anyone has done in the history of getting people to look away from something important, it appears that Mother Lauren somehow got wind of the plan. She flinched and the world flinched with her.
She glared and the world swooned. She no longer even has to fight. Night Vale is her thick, sludging heart, her pock-marked lungs. She has made us part of her disease.
“I am the universe itself,” she howled, an air-raid siren of a voice coming from all places at once. “To fight me is to fight the fabric of existence.”
A laughable effort. The library tweens were seized by Mother Lauren's drones, who once were our own citizens, but now are pink, spongy lumps with no eyes, constantly screaming, “help me, I still feel all of it.! There is some vital part of me that remains untainted. I still have a soul!” As they lumber comically toward the tweens.
The tweens put up a valiant fight, but they were captured and thrown into the town prison, which now is covered in a pale, flaky skin. The boy watched this all happen, holding onto
Mother Lauren's hands, enfolded in her multitude of oil slick wings. Something came over him, and he turned, and struck out at Mother Lauren.
With the effort of his entire soul, he resisted her influence, and he stuck a knife into her side. Without bothering to look his way, she weaved her tendrils around him, and he was absorbed into her being. The boy now stands at her feet, the tendrils fused with his skin, and pulsing sickeningly. His eyes are blank whites. His hands flap about like they are playing an invisible piano. Oh, Night Vale, this is the moment of greatest despair. We have not only been defeated, but changed. We are no longer who we are.
And to make matters worse, here comes Kevin, unfolding himself from the crowd, strutting up to the podium of his victory.
He looks around at the city that he has finally driven under his thumb. After years of resisting him, we can resist no more. He sees the bowling alley enrobed in veins and arteries and malignant tumors. He sees town hall turned into a tongue covered in white fuzz. He sees my own station, my beloved radio station , now entirely made of the same stuff as toenails. He sees all the evidence of his victory.
And then he turns and looks at the boy, the boy that he came back for, the boy that is the younger version of himself. He looks at the helpless boy and he smiles. Here there is a heavy stillness, but somewhere, thunder, somewhere, snow, somewhere far away, weather.

(“Cutting Teeth” by Priscilla Snow)

Okay, I don't know what to do here, honestly. Usually when we go to the weather report, a great struggle or climactic event happens concurrently with it, and we come back to a problem solved. With my perspective now shifted to the past, I can then fill you in on how we made it through yet another dangerous day in our fair town.
Now some people mistake this for the weather actually fixing the problem, but that's not the case. The weather usually just happens at the same time as what fixes the problem, and then I, utilizing my expert narrative skills, tell you how that happened. This time, however, everything is more or less how we left it.
The boy, still captive. Mother Lauren, still ascendant. And Kevin, still smiling.
There will be no victorious shift in perspective, only a terrifying march through the ceaseless present. And in that present moment, Kevin turns to the boy. He kneels down, still smiling, and takes the boy's hand. Gently, he untangles Mother Lauren's tendrils from the boy's skin. He guides the boy down from the podium. Mother Lauren, her eyes to the cosmos, is seemingly impassive to the final meager death throes of our little town.
The boy looks at Kevin. Kevin smiles at the boy. I do not like that smile, but then I have never liked Kevin's smile.
“The last time I was here,” Kevin says, “I said that this was a situation I would not be able to handle alone. And I was right. And I was wrong. Because I can handle it with just me, but I cannot handle it with only one of me.”
“I'm sorry,” the boy says, “but I don't know who you are.” It seems that his encounter with the body and mind of Mother Lauren has left him without his memories.
He stares blankly at the world like it was a book in a language he took a few classes back in high school, like he should know it, but he doesn't.
“That's okay,” Kevin says, “because I remember enough for the both of us. I've never talked much about my father. He was a jovial man, but a stern man. He was a fair man, but with priorities I did not always understand. I think he did the best job he could. In fact, I know he did, because in this moment, I understand him better than anyone has ever understood their own father.”
“Okay,” the boy says. He clearly doesn't know why this man is telling him this.
He says, “I don't have a father.” He doesn't say this tragically, but like he was telling the time to someone who asked.
“Ah,” says Kevin, “but you do.”
My childhood was a strange riddle I never could quite solve. And here you are, a neat solution to the question of my life. Listeners, I am starting to understand what Kevin is getting at here.
And I'm not sure I like it, but it does have a certain symmetry to it. Life is rarely fair, but it is  often balanced.
“What are you saying?” the boy says.
“Your name is Kevin, and I am your father,” says Kevin, who is Kevin's father.
“I am? You are?” says the boy, who is Kevin.
“Yes,” says Kevin's father. “I will raise you well or well enough or well enough, you know. I will see you through.”
He looks up at Mother Lauren. She finally looks down. Her tendrils weave through the earth and the bricks and the flesh of Night Vale, her sunny smile clouds over.
“I thought I was through with you,” she says.
“You were wrong,” says Kevin and Kevin's father simultaneously.
Kevin's father stands tall and Kevin stands as tall as he can, which is not nearly as tall as his father.
“Not yet. Dead wrong,” calls a voice from the crowd. And here steps forward Alejandra Nunez, Ronnie Sharma, and Nonoco Barnes of Mr. Prescott's 5th period AP English class, otherwise known as the Library Tweens.
“I thought you were in jail,” I say, from my radio booth. Because this is all happening in the present moment, so it just now occurred to me that I could be an active part of these events.
“We were,” says Ronnie, “but then this nice old lady busted us out.”
“I am not old, I'm in my early twenties for God's sake,” says Tamika Flynn.
“She did a real daring and action-packed jailbreak,” says Nonoco. “I wouldn't have known someone that ancient had it in her.”
“Ugh,” says Tamika. But she does look exhilarated about having once again taken part in an adventure. In one hand she holds a rope, and in her other hand she holds a copy of the novel Autumn by Ali Smith. It's the British first edition, the one that was printed on a working blowtorch.
“Point is,” says Alejandra to Mother Lauren, “you'll have to stand against us.”
“And me,” says Tamika, shooting a menacing jet of fire from Ali Smith's elliptical portrait of Brexit-era Britain.
“And me,” says Kevin's father.
Kevin, the young boy that he is, looks around, unsure. This is all a lot of new information all at once. But he makes his decision.
“And me,” he says.
Mother Lauren laughs. And the mountains laugh with her. Hollow booms in canyons and passes.
She swats at Kevin. But Kevin dodges. Mother Lauren's face flickers with concern.
She swats again. Nothing connects. The streets roaral.
“I knew you before,” Kevin's father says. “I know that somewhere in there is human vulnerability.”
"Laughable," screams Mother Lauren. She is not laughing.
Mother Lauren's drones advance, but a few stop. And then, human faces start to come out of their pink, fleshy lumps. We could neither breathe nor could we die, the people inside the drones say. We were trapped in the moment between breaths.
It was torture without end. Other Night Vale citizens give them thumbs up, indicating empathy.
“No, I am a god,” shouts Mother Lauren.
“Yes,” says Kevin's father, “and like any god, you are defined by the belief of your worshipers.”
Mother Lauren's face screws up in fury, and then she scowls up again at the cosmos.
“Yeah, okay, screw it,” she says. “This universe was getting too small for me anyway.”
And with that, she floats into the sky. The stars open like a door for her. She steps through. She glances back for a moment at the city below her.
“One day I will return,” she says. “Or I won't, TBD.” And then the stars swing shut behind her.
And she is gone. Gradually the city comes back to itself. The people shake off the influence of Mother Lauren. The buildings and the earth and the trees return to themselves. All is as it was. Minus those who are dead or injured or missing, which is a good amount of people.
At the center of all this is a boy and his father. The boy is holding his father's hand. The boy is holding his own hand.
Kevin is holding Kevin's hand. And together, Kevin walks back to his home to live, if not always happily, then at the very least ever after.
After the Kevins pass through it, Carlos pulls the plug on the portal, deciding that science, while worth some cost, is not worth every cost. Science must be in the service of humanity, never the other way around. It is a tool, not a goal.Oh, he says that the portal made a real cool zap sound as it turned off.
The Library tweens, as they wish to be called, have declared the creation of a new teen militia to protect Night Vale from any further incursions from Desert Bluffs 2 and anyone else who might want to mess with them. Tamika Flynn, who knows a thing or two about leading a teen militia, offered to be a mentor. But the Library tweens put out a statement saying, “Uh, that's okay. No thanks, ma'am.”
What lies ahead for Night Vale? I cannot say. Our future is an unwritten slate. Our past is a diary scribbled in handwriting none of us can read. And our present is the view through a dirty window. Specifically, for me, the dirty window in this studio. Through which I can see Amber Akinye teaching her son how to ride a bike. I can see Michelle Wynn and Maureen Johnson taking their poodle earwig mix or poo wig out for a walk. I can see, ooh, I can see a mysterious van with the symbol of a labyrinth on it with a man who is not tall and a man who is not short inside driving some unknown cargo out into the scrublands. Short, I see the day to day of a town that has been through a lot, but remained through it all, very much itself.
I see Night Vale, and I love it.
Good night, my favorite town. Good night.

Today's proverb. Hit me with your best shot. Ow! Okay, actually that sucked. Please hit me with one of your worst shots instead.

This post has been edited by mushroomliang: 2024-06-18, 03:02