There is paint splattered everywhere in a cacophony of colors, but somehow only on the left side.  The right side is neat and orderly and white, with countless notebooks stacked on bright white bookshelves.

The paint has your full attention. Something is...wrong about it. You do not want to touch it.

"Hello, new friend!"

You start. How did you miss that there was actually someone in here? 

You see a human guy, with paint covering his clothes. A very soothing purple eye symbol floats over his closed left eye. 


"Uh. Hello?"

How does socializing work again?  Oh well, when in doubt question away. 

"Is this your room?"

"Yes! I love creating art here. This is a great place."

You suppose that must be true? There sure is a lot of...art here?

"You put the paint here?" You do not like the paint.

"I painted with a brush! It’s making art!".

They nudge their left arm. It's completely limp at their side, wrapped in a long appendage that ends in a dripping purple paint brush. Their arm sluggishly lifts up a notebook held in their hand, which the brush has been constantly painting on seemingly since you entered the room.

"That. Makes sense. So... Do you know anything about Zampanio?"

"Oh, the game is fun! I played it once! I am an eye!"

"Oh. Uh. Me too."

You think for a while. You suppose it makes sense that the person covered in paint lives in the paint covered room.  You feel an odd sort of kinship with the eye-shaped symbol.  You still do not like the paint.


"But I mean. What IS it? Besides fun. I mean?"

The guy beams at you. "I game the game! Zampanio is a very good game. You should play it."

You feel a deep need, nestled into your chest. Or is it fear? They're probably the same thing at this point.

"I want to. At least...I think I did? Do you know where I could find it? Do you know what it means? What happens to the people who play it?"

"Hmm. Great question! Why don’t you try to see my art?"

They offer you the notebook they've been painting in.

You do not like the paint. 
But you also cannot help yourself. You peer into the notebook. 

It's page after page of random purple text and images. Always purple. You see a pony. A mall. A rabbit. An owl. A book. A magnifying glass. Lots of foxes. Most of all, you see the same eye symbol superimposed over their own drawn over and over and over and over. You also see a link, hand-painted in the middle of the chaos.
https://scratch.mit.edu/projects/586984476
It's disorganized. It's discordant. It's discomforting. But at the same time, it feels like it means something. Like if you could reach down far enough, there might be something important buried under all the drawings, within the paint.
A nagging thought pops into your head. If that brush only paints purple, where did the other colors of paint in the room come from?


You pull back. Something about these secrets feel like they are not for you.  After all, you've always insisted on finishing one path before going down a side path. 


Suddenly, the person seems to remember something.
"Oh, yes, I need to see them!"
They rush to a bookshelf, pull out one of the notebooks, and start writing something in it, finger-painting the words in purple with their right hand with paint from their brush. They seem pretty invested in it.



You wait a bit, but when nothing else happens you feel the call to return to wandering.