Oh, Johnny wishes he was famous / spends his time alone in the basement / with Lennon and Cobain and / a guitar and a stereo

Nybbas sits alone, hours later, curled up on a bed, laptop in his lap, not looking at the screen. He lets his Soundtrack play idly in the background, not thinking about it too hard, not commenting on it. It's too smartass lately.

And he wishes he could escape this / but it all seems so contagious / not to be yourself and faceless / and a song that has no soul

He doesn't need to look at the computer screen. It's a good enough habit to get into, though servitors would hardly notice a Superior's ability to blind-type. But today he doesn't bother. He's alone here, it's quiet here, and he's not typing, anyway. There's not much point.

I remember feeling low / I remember losing hope / and I remember all the feelings / and the day they stopped

He thinks of blinded eyes, the thin film over them. He thinks of pain. He thinks of what it's like to really go blind, the slow blurring inward, blinking, blinking, darkness. He thinks of the sudden despair. All your work is visual. You run your fingers over machines, trying to associate the feelings with your mental image of them. They don't match up. Bless it.

We are, we are all innocent / We are all innocent / We are, we are...

He thinks of a strange sort of deliberate innocence - oh, Jean was good enough at that. Nybbas is an actor and a director, he knows when someone's taking on a deliberate role, and Jean he knows to be no innocent. You can't be that experienced, can't be a bloody Elohite and have innocence left.

Oh, Tina's losing faith in what she knows / hates her music and all of her clothes / Thinks of surgery and a new nose / every calorie's a war / And while she wishes she was a dancer / And that she'd never heard of cancer / She wishes God would give her some answers / And make her feel beautiful

He thinks about Mahazioth. Clearly Jean was planning something to do with her. Redemption, naturally, was somewhere on the schedule, but with a Power you never knew, did you? Still, while he'd much rather keep the girl around - she had real talent, after all - he couldn't help wondering what kind of Elohite she'd be if Jean had his way. Beautiful? Cold? Calm? Who could say. He thought about the images that crowded through him when he'd gone blind, plans for a film someday, when the television caught on. Thought up his very own monster to seize the audience in terror. Mazio finally got to act against it, and Jean had responded. He wished he could have seen Jean's face, finally seen the audience's response to his very first idea he'd gotten as director.

One day, you'll have to let it go / You'll have to let it go / No... / One day, you'll stand up on your own / You'll stand up on your own

Still, not much point dwelling on that. Even if he wanted to see what Jean had looked like. Even if he wanted to see, bless it. Even if it was just to improve his work as director, producer, actor. Even if it was just to try to figure out whether that had been innocence in Jean's blindness, or experience. How much did he know? If Jean knew too much... Knowledge was dangerous, knowledge could ruin him. Bless it. He needed to know what Jean knew. He wanted to believe Jean innocent. Wanted to write it off. Wanted to fight off the jealousy. Blind at will. Able to see when he wanted to. Bless it.

We are (one day), we are all innocent / We are all innocent (you'll have to let it go) / We are, we are (you'll have to let it go, no... )

He put his head in his hands, snapped at his Soundtrack - do you mind? He didn't want to hear it. Not that it ever listened. Just kept on, telling him things and leaving him to interpret the God-blessed thing.

We are all innocent.