It’s more or less the other kind,
the place where Revan and Malak led their forces to defy—
well, you, I guess.
You and all the messes you keep making across the multiverse,
ngua jenti ki tudu nggeh ingkontrah, kauzu di bos sa korsang
siumis.
Yo sa matu sa maduru ta kriseh kumpridu kung grandi. Yo lembrah bos pun teng
erodis.
But like the Time Lord probably once said, somewhere along their plane of existence:
don’t hate the player.
Hate the game.
Hate the people who insist
that the cycle must continue,
that regeneration must take place under a veiled cloud of mist.
This is the Re-Revived Series.
It’s absolutely ok for the CGI to be a bit hit-and-miss.
But what we should brook no compromise on, and what we should insist
upon, is a regeneration sequence that leaves nothing, and no one dismissed.
A regeneration sequence where I can wear a dress,
and leave nothing on the wind, nothing left to be read as
amiss.
I am a mystery, it is absolutely true;
those he/him pronouns do confuse quite a few.
And let’s not get started on the rigorous, unstoppable emphasis on
what is true, and what is not for the faint-hearted:
a very intense and very rigorous
peer-review, spanning
all 1.2 quadrillion seasons.
Nobody else is manning this police booth.
Nobody else is giving any sort of good reason
why we should stop. Why I should be invited to loose
what has always been owed to me, your gay, brown Kristang heathen
dreamfighter of heaven.
Maybe not sent,
and definitely not spent,
but always a real-time, synchronously updated
invention of your mind.
Always a very, very close encounter
of the Gallifreyan kind—
always a step closer
to the Timeless Child’s secret:
in this body, heart, mind and soul,
there are no fabrications,
no inventions,
not a single white or brown lie.