Oh my. It's such a wonderful chapter. The "free" notebook that Claire gave to me is quite old, but it's got Word, and no way to connect or get immediately pasted out there. No disks allowed for a while I think.

The feeling of wish I kinda could be of help but well well aren't and isn't everybody a selfish psycho and probably I can't even help myself so on...

it's like this, no internet for the actual words, no graphics on the notebook -

when I'm here writing on this posting board it's either in the Charleston, SC county library or most likely in the front room on the right at www.notsohostel.com.

It's sort of hard here now - there's an old man who has been here for months and he's supposedly waiting for public housing in Massachutsetts - I think he's a liar. He snores. And he plops piles of papers down all around me when I write and refolds, packs, stacks, staples and pulls out and puts back inside, and hums. It's almost like he's insane and only wants to screw with my head while I'm writing.

Excuse me if I don't love your "writing" like everyone else here, but it would be nice if you actually interacted with us instead of writing post after post of this stuff.

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quote:

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Originally posted by Flux:
Excuse me if I don't love your "writing" like everyone else here, but it would be nice if you actually interacted with us instead of writing post after post of this stuff.

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Wow it's a morning new day here.

I put my cap on. It's an old freak, it's sitting next to me, it pushes its coffee cup sometimes better watch out it didn't snore last night.

it's like a yoda or something, the other ones are nice to it, for some reason that kinda thing gets friendly respect - yucky

chair means butt somehow that's dumb

I wrote 700 words

brushed through those

now I get to add to them, the paragraphs are too quick at first, too much value not enough tatters

quote:

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Originally posted by Jonathan Harris:
The feeling of wish I kinda could be of help but well well aren't and isn't everybody a selfish psycho and probably I can't even help myself so on...

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Jonathan Harris,

I feel like some part of me knows her. Some illusive slice of my being resonates with her every word, and I can't help but think that in some unknown but visceral way we are linked. She doesn't believe in that stuff so much. But when she speaks, I remember her intimately though we've never met in the flesh. She hurts and I cry. Without her, life would be dark and incomplete again. Yet I've never layed eyes on her.

She's an artful soul who lives a priveleged existence, but has made an oath she cannot break. I sense her presence in the collective soul, and reach for her through the ether, the white noise of my reality. But we can't share a caress. We can't even know eachother. I don't even know if she really exists.

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The sores on my arms are almost healed completely. Those were from bug bites or something - it was all very confusing, but those left dozens of pink scars on my arms and again the pink/red color has to fade away, and I'll be ok then. The arms still have deep bruising though, from the swelling caused by the insect poison -

but that swelling is gone. I feel kinda funny about all that, maybe I should humiliate the other tenants and myself and take a full force shower and bath, apply kindness to my body, and even go get something to eat.

I'm aware that my writing has become magical. The 1000 + words have been read many times now, and polished, and so I will soon proceed with more, - by the end of January I thought this chapter would be finished. Perhaps sooner.

I'm dealing with this first - I think it must be done and done so that when the warmth comes again I can move into different intelligence, as you know the character of Xithera is important to the others as an interdimensional time traveller, so I'll take the value of the first and inject it later times on, drawing them all nearer to the place they belong.

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