"Ahhhhh... there you are."
"I have been waiting for you. For quite some time."
"You have something to say to the world, do you not?
A post. An offer. A message that has been rotting away in your drafts folder like a forgotten soul in the east wing."
"Come in. Come in before the door decides it no longer wishes to be open."
Follow Me, The chandelier sways. Portraits line the walls — businessmen, shopkeepers, entrepreneurs, all frozen in expressions of mild regret.
"You see them? The portraits?"
"These... were the ones who almost posted. They had the product. They had the audience. They had everything but the nerve."
"And so, they hang here now. Watching. Forever wondering what might have happened if they had simply... clicked publish."
"Do not end up on my wall. The frames are full enough."
"You feel that? That pull? That is your audience."
"They are up there. Scrolling. Waiting. Clicking through your competitor's page with the hollow eyes of people who simply could not find you."
"Every second you spend standing still is a customer lost to the darkness. And the darkness, my friend, keeps everything it catches."
"Behold."
"The computer."
"It has been waiting for you. The cursor blinks — one, two, three — like a heartbeat. Like a warning. Like a dare."
"Your post is already inside it. Half-written. Half-alive. Pacing. Impatient."
"Sit down. Open the draft. And for the love of all things unholy — finish it."
The algorithm does not sleep. It does not rest. It does not care that you were busy. Post. Or be forgotten.
"The only thing more terrifying than posting... is never being seen at all."
"Oh — and one more thing."
"Do not wait until tomorrow."
"Tomorrow is where good intentions go to die."
"Mwahahahahaaaa..."