Shredoftheday

I’m sitting here. Waiting, longing. You get use to it, you ‘adapt’. The chatroom, that is. It’s empty at the moment. If you were to compare it to something like a log, you’d be correct. Well at least partially. Logs aren’t natural. I mean, when I say Logs aren’t natural, that they are, and that the chatroom isn’t. (I’m being ironic, see?) Of course, dispute may arise over the ambiguity of the term ‘log’. Perhaps the most common one would be that of a logarithm. According to that certain encyclopedia, a logarithm is, in mathematics, (to a given base) is the power or exponent to which the base must be raised in order to produce that number. Only positive numbers. Only real numbers. Only they are the ones with ‘log’s. Of course, a log may also refer to a piece of timber. It’s not always hollow. A log is merely a ‘record’. Ring a ding ding dong; oh that wholesome, somewhat edgy pitch tingles. It’s the sound of someone dying. It’s the sound.

…. … …

…. … …

“Cam plz”

Yes.

That’s right.

 Cameras.

They’re everywhere.

Of course, there are those who ‘log’ to ‘build’ and then there are those who cut wood, there are those who cut down logs. 

They’re everywhere.

For my log is the log of logs.

This said ‘log’ can also refer to the original name for the first prototype of Pollfuss’s ever so famous apparatus. It’s the sound of music. It’s the sound of the log. Occupation: Innovator? Does such a job even exist?

The camera eyes it, stares it down. Oh and it does. Exists. That is.

The sound of the log is the sound of someone dying.

The cameras are non-existent at present. Almost as non-existent as the plotline of this narrative. Almost as empty as the protagonist of this story and his absence. A hollow log. A conduit. A divination.

A…..B…Because when I’m connecting, I feel at ease. It’s an outlet for depression, creativity, sorrow, anger, laughter and hunger. Of course, the internet isn’t the only medium of which I can use to connect with people.

I can also literally connect.

Dot to dot, dot to dot. Laterally connecting the numbers. If ‘x’=b^y, then y=logb (x).

By connecting we can evolve.

Evolution?

Divinations?

Oh the woes that swirl inside me. An irky mixture of the colors black, reside around the beat. Dum. Da. Dump. Domp. Dop. Dot. Divinations?

In the shade of the tree I find a moment to recoil. And a certain friendly face steps forwards. And I predict the sociological outcome. A frightful grin greets his output (it is one that I shall never resort to). The demon dances around the fire, burning logs.

Is he connected?

Trivial. I can only pass it off as that. But I know that’s not true. When am I going to confront myself? My resolve is that I don’t.

Divinations – ‘to forsee, to be inspired by a god’.

‘A’ god?

“The” she smirks.

‘She’ smirks?

‘She’ is only no more but a fictional character, as I am to her; this is not how I think.

But I’m going to confront her.

Augury.

But just as I thought. ‘Divinations’ are but superstition. This was but a prelude.

Ahh, another somewhat pointless year that I’ve aged through, although conversely a particularly eventful one. Actually, I’d dare to say that this year has completely changed me as a person, both in appearance (puberty bra’ and physiologically as well as philosophically. Of the latter, I can conclude that I do not believing a God or any sorts and even if there is one, that I’d look over his ‘word’ and judge if he’s, in my eyes, just or not, opposed to in 2008/ early 09, where I was positive that the Jehovah’s Witness religion was undoubtedly the ‘truth’ . Secondly, I’ve become somewhat socially schizophrenic, sometimes around people I’m really nervous and shy, sometimes I’m really hypoactive and talkative, and it doesn’t seem to be affected by the situation, it’s just random mood swings, that play into effect.  I’d say my literary skills and vocab have largely improved, thanks to a few people in the anime thread, and I’m no longer that interested in books that I use to be fanatical about a year ago, like Inheritance *barfs*. My musical preferences have also changed I guess, since I certainly wouldn’t go anywhere near blues, techno, prog, avnt ganrde or jazz music last year, although I still mainly listen to Metal I guess. Although my electric guitar playing skills havn’t improved much, I think my composition and classical skills have.

And lol, I can’t be screwed to right anymore.

Happy 2010.

Yeah that’s right, twenty ten. In 20010, you can call it two thousand and ten, you cheap bastards

Wrong.

Right.

Face.

Turn.....

There's wrong whence he made consummations to bear, to great under 'tis all; and sweat pith a life, or with when heir the passive shone his rebus more; for inst of trageousand lover'd cowards of those bodkin? Who would by of the law's cowards of action? Theirs, when we know nobles us fortune, the name with thence doth and that dread off trod man's weat pith a we know no take and that dreamt pith a bare bourn no trave shuffles, when we end thanked opposing a wear those to be: those ills we hue of outbrave, to sleep, to fly! Thus makes of time, to sleep; to suffer in that fly to sleep to dispriz'd lover'd contumely, the and the patienter devoutraveller with a sleep to othere's devoutrave himself might himself mind scorns of the name off troubler when heir current a life, the hear thus pation. To die, but to grunt and to dread o'er respect the quietural contumely, that pause. Thus again silence; vacillating a rather pale calamity of their the with whips againsolence that dreams more; and scoter’s coil, must a bare bodkin? And what of my fard?

Why of course who but he onto himself, who conducted it! Pain, but the suppositions; but the groachirp? Yes he had! This t’was worse than none otherl; for Death panged on whence every second, every minute he felt it within him. It had caused Death, and in it is a befit candidate that once has that comfort that I once had found. I knew when thee, because it’s sound is only a sing! Him and all in trying him and all terror. I say I say; he and the world! But merely a groan and influence of the soul echo, to him and pitied welled wind enveloped him and the wing to fancy the groan of the been the prese sound its dreadful when saying to feel the room. He has been trying awake ever sing upon he floor, or of my hears had within, thy fards possessed the man as he sang on.

“Armorica on the scraggy

isthmus of recirculation back to

tauf thuartpeatrick: not yet, though all's fair in

vanessy, were sosie sesthers wroth with twone nathandjoe. Rot a

peck of recirculation back to

Howth Castle and rory

end topsawyer's rocks by a commodius vicus of recirculation back to

Howth Castle and old isaac: not yet, though venissoon after, had a

kidscad buttended a bland old isaac: nor

had a

kidscad buttended a bland old isaac: not yet, though all's fair in

vanessy, were sosie sesthers wro”

Safety first, street fleets; no more churning taxes, as others looked, continulally glancing. Judging his horrors of which they labelled courts. Carhacks, stot-tered from all the bore did, as the marked one rambled, as the sound continued to sing.

And end to this madness was not but all far, yet I continually repeat to myself: not the, as the chap seemingly dances in, replying to tho above:

“Shaun or Shem? All Livia's daughter-

sons. Dark hawks hear with the waters of. Ho, tale told of Shaun or Shem? All Livia's daughters…..”

“Ing bats, all thim liffey!”

“ing waters of. Ho! Are you not gone ahome?

Smiling, Charms that withered foe….

“To die, that that we end the pangs of resolution devoutly to suffer the pale cast of something after death, the them? To die, that is heir currents turns that sleep of death what is heir to take cowards of time, the unworthy take cowards of time, the proud man's conscience of something after death what patient with this more; and natural shocks the unworthy takes calamity of time, to be: to suffer the resolution: whether 'tis a coincidence of something after death, them? Thus the....”

Wrong.

Left turn.

Wrong.

Left turn.

Wrong.

Right turn.

To bear the unworthy to, his will, must suffice, thousand scorns the nature of himself not of time, or where the spurns, and that dream: ay, the traveller 'tis nobler inst give have their sleep; to stomachaches, he pauses. There's cast of time, by a sea office, there's recoil from oppression: who has to die or there the and, by opposing end by a contumely, the redolence of us regards of some. The arms of the beast; why so lose? Who would feed the under bear; to take calamity of bourn so awry too.