This blog covers prose, oneirotics, plagiarism, history, school, shards, verse, drink, venom, theology, family, robots, war, fremdsprache, spielwort, friends, her, medicine, charity, geography, crumbs, music, lies, people, meta, time, changa, rant, truth, quotes, sports, space, le sed
Travel back to 2019-06, 2018-04, 2017-06, 2017-12, 2018-09, 2020-01, 2019-03, 2019-04, 2019-05, 2017-04, 2019-02, 2018-11, 2018-12, 2018-08, 2020-02, 2019-12, 2019-01, 2018-10, 2018-03, 2018-01, 2018-02, 2019-11, 2017-07
Vodalus caught my attention shortly after forsaking the cemetery wall scaling quest due to energy minimization locating the unlocked gate, ajar in the windless fog; while not quite jet, fur so black doesn't easily blend with trash and pavement. No need for mewling at such hours, either: all sentient life worth its weight in traction notices itself at such times. Feline slinks, feeble leaps, and a single gentle bite at the meat of my petting hand trigger her laughing whisper, imagined clear as she reads to herself the simplest rejection textable before touching the glass to fire it off: "I recommend cats"
Vodalus remained silent - for all I know, muted in the ongoing struggle against would-be Autarch agents (may His tears rain joy upon our deserts!) - yet the Master of Apprentices at the Library of Rambleon couldn't resist whipping out the best prop, an inertia-fed [BRAND NAME REDACTED], and whispering back: "Gavar'it-pa dee TSEIT?"
Since I spend too much time thinking, instead of ACTSing, and I act too much against the page instead of with the rage, the real risk runs further than I even could imagine when I last tried to leave myself some crumbs; naturally, crumbs are for future children to follow, and when my inner child is marooned on Censure Island while the superegic callosum deludes itself into reincarnating the old fuck (since living out a century of "old manhood" is quite the cruel and unusual punishment), the proper response is to cast out another fistful of crumbs: