Friday, January 14, 2011


Once there was a man who saw only the world as it was, not as it could be. He didn't plan, he didn't hope, he didn't dream. He just tried to eke a living and get on with his life. This man was a pragmatist and a realist. He didn't believe in abstract ideals or the theoretical; he only believed in what could be experienced, or quantified. This man lived by Occam's Razor, he cut his sandwhiches with it, he fucking shaved with it.

He died.

I am not him.

Jean is still alive. It's not over yet.


  1. The Black Rook rouses, a sleeping giant commits to action.

    Nothing is over until the final piece falls.

  2. I do believe Thage is coming onto you, Reach

  3. Ah, the Black Rook is ill-equipped for the Spectator's tastes.

  4. By which I understand that I am (1) not a girl, (2) not human and (3) not capable of being touched without the sensation of pins and needles.

  5. 1), mostly, though 2) and 3) would be contributing factors.