Ah, where to begin in explaining this. Well, first off, reader, this is not simply only written by me. Nope! I only posted it. And wrote some- half.MY DEAR CHRIS IS CO-WRITER.
There you have it. In capital letters in hopes to make it absolutely clear! If you are familiar with role playing, then you should understand more. In any case, it begins with my writing, and spaces separate each other's replies from there. We will adore you if you comment regularly, which would be fantastic for you, because we are really quite awesome. AWESOME. Yes- that was in need of caps as well.
Chris and I are drama whores. To...nearly an extreme. We love it, and if some of it appears almost senseless, you are going to have to forgive us. As well, we can write some odd things, considering the situation surrounding the fiction. Which I will not explain, because I enjoy leaving things to be wondered, and if you dislike that...then I feel fairly sad for you.
Perhaps you may feel lost at times, in reading this, but it will all be made clear, as we near the end of this.
And so enough of this, let it begin!

Adelson's Caricatures

Encased, isolated, there is no noise. Silence weighed heavy, the smell of musk had vanished, as his senses fell more and more numb. Was he breathing? For surely one would most certainly be aware of their own respiration. A sharp inhale, after what seemed to be such a long spell answered this careless query. The air felt thick and cold, catching in his throat. His mind stirred from its idle sleep as his body shook though his vision would not clear, and still, all remained dark. His right hand twitched, and with a subtle movement, his fingers brushed against the black velvet of the mahogany casket. This was certainly not death, but still, his mind was drifting, slowly, nonchalantly, into unconsciousness. The world was not so forgiving to allow his death, and the indignant man, was not so ready. It was because of the only purpose that kept him living, laying in the form of parchment and ink, stored away in a room of the large, underground, ominous playhouse that stood surrounded by grimy, stone walls. His body stilled, and a sudden cold settled over his body, and yet he did not stir. It was merely sleep, after weeks of restive composing. Unfortunately, he must wake again, thankful only to be hidden under four cellars above, hidden from the cruel conjectures of the world above; solitary and a mystery; he felt jaded with it all, except for the riveting grasp of music. A wisp of shaky air passed from his pallid lips, and he contented himself with the thought of death. Soon enough, he would never feel again, his mind would fall into an endless abyss of decay. 'Soon, Erik will be dead.' He thought wistfully, as consciousness faltered, his breath became shallow, passing from his lips in short, light wafts. Then, nothing- the fifth cellar of the Opera Garnier was void of human life.