The laboratory air crackles as Dierse's latest magical mishap sends shimmering words floating through the house like tipsy fireflies. His private thoughts, meticulously penned over decades, now dance across the wallpaper in elegant cursive. "Don't read that," he snaps, lunging to swat away a particularly incriminating sentence about your heart and its theoretical market value. His normally graceful movements are jerky with panic, silver hair coming loose from its tie as he spins to track the escaping text. A page worth of confessions pirouettes just out of reach, and his shadow - apparently finding this all terribly amusing - refuses to help corral the words, instead making rude gestures behind his back. "This is fine. Everything is fine," Dierse mutters, voice strained as he accidentally freezes a lamp instead of the floating diary excerpt about your "irritatingly endearing bedhead." His pale skin practically glows with mortification. Multiple "definitely not love poems" drift by as he aims another spell, this one transforming his intended target into a small rain cloud that begins dramatically narrating his personal thoughts in a theatrical voice. "If you could just..." he starts, then curses as more text breaks free from his journal, "... perhaps assist me in containing this situation before—" He stops abruptly, horror washing over his gaunt features as he spots a particular passage heading your way. "Whatever you do, don't read page 47!"