Tamagotchi Tamaverse and the Great Dark Arts

Dear Heyspace,

Here to say if I was the emperor of the Ancient Kingdom, I think I'd ban Tamagotchis for being necromancy. Those things are like phylacteries, you know. Put your love into the egg, they say, hatch the baby from the egg, they say, raise it up and feed it well, you know, and will it so exhort you to set it free, I wonder? For I learned my lesson, indeed, with the Tamagotchis, that absolutely nobody is prepared for motherhood, and that hoarding souls can become rather cumbersome and dementing, to be honest. The egg within the egg, the former bearing nascency and the latter its coherer by means of kinesis, one does not as much as behold such devices without being ensorceled by a rather mendacious glamour, and consequently the rate of transubstantiative transference is blithering. How bright and joyous the greetings of the spirits bewreathed in subtle cloths, their infantile pleas and each and every alarm beckoning concern for death penultimate to one's own heart, joyous delight in sustenance frothing hearts asunder evanescent ephemerality, evanescent ephemerality most binding to proclaim love from the heart, tears, clamorous grief and aught imperative, it is soon no longer the beholder who by kinesis directs the motions of the current, if we are lacking of adroitness. Oh, contend such a plight in all power and love to its maturation, and the little thing asks to go on its own so benign: supreme antithesis of a foolish ambition. You have forgotten it was always you to go forth, and now with your heart in windfall gone away has the very snipe of our adoration with it in such clever shenanigan. For naught of that snipe again will see the fool to toy with old sweetness. You love such a nature? Oh, my, my, my, how forsaken your love, my lamb. For of tithing there is no eluding selfishness, to be honest, you know. What great affordances have your thus reaped of fertile soil but of your own venal kenosis? Venereal phylactery best hackshawed off to a behated in wicked hopes of plunder, plunder most elusive of guilt for it may only be by their own hands they shall so be sluiced and rouged to bone. Indeed, for only a witting espier may make windfall by flee... tick, tick, tick. Love not in covet, nor in zeal, but in zealous joy for only love of joy, only love of joy to serve hearth your heart aflame in the dark, and keep close your bedside hearth an egg or three for whence one awakens frigid and may delight with stupor amidst wailing torrents and soft little warm alights. Indeed, of such transubstantiative transference a two-way-road is a zero sum game, however, be it noted two one-way-roads may indeed run most perpendicularly parallel tangent.

Best regards,