S.N.I.t. ; David Bowie ; Space Oditty

rework by

DavID Unknowie ; a Space Ditty

Birth Control to Major Tom Birth Control to Major Tom Please take precautions and put the condom on

Birth Control to major Tom (10, 9, 8, 7) Commencing love making, time to get on (6, 5, 4, 3) Stay clear, don't dare to sing in God's sacred shrine (2, 1, unlease)

This is Birth Control to Major Tom You really were to late, again General Practitioner needs to tell you the outcome of the pregnancy tests of all your intimate relations

This is Major Tom to Birth Control I Can't answer your call right now from all my dear responsibilities I will escape I'll fly with a commercial space shuttle into space

Up here I'll float careless and free away from the troubles caused by the fruitfull spurrings of my seed

Out here the past isn't passing either I assumed they were using the pill I hope mining for gold on Pluto will ease my mind Tell them I care, eventhough I leave them behind

Birth Control to Major Tom, We've lost connection, soldier, get back online Can you log back in Major Tom Can you log back in Major Tom Can you log back in Major Tom Can you...

Up here I'll float careless and free away from the troubles caused by the fruitfull spurrings of my seed

Birth Control to Major Tom, We've lost connection, soldier, get back online Can you log back in Major Tom Can you log back in Major Tom Can you log back in Major Tom Can you...

De Connetie naar het origineel, succes ermee... https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iYYRH4apXDo

Our Father Who art in Heaven Hallowed be Thy name Thy Kingdom come Thy will be done on Earth as it is in Heaven Give us this day our daily Bread And forgive us our trespasses As we forgive those who trespass against us And lead us not into temptation But deliver us from evil

Amen

Jesus is Lord! Come Lord Jesus!

Come Lord Jesus! Christ is Lord!

The apiary be Scottish run to mute Late December this hugger And seeing simply rise What time in Hearst for Will Enough of oak And seeming simpler For five octet and lane And pasture by the law Economy forever- and nines to the Moon Giving ray to God And night shall let us be- the end of war.

When I Chew The Lamb’s Ear

Stuck on Holiday #4 Days in beckon begin The distal one and near An early vice remains This, the forest of thy keep A special ray of untrue lies The Victory ghost when life was pure Of bent wire and war with water We Sundayed to the news And all of us together Fruitful limbs and nighted dew All that is seen at war is true And bits of caving in to the stellar

But one was a few And day 4 for the Claris hen Guilty of this row offshore A kitten made Stonehenge,- And we were involved

A price on sale for the drifting war Things to truly offer men Sympathy shores while the rain is new Backstabbed things and I was her

But afraid for the early joust I was stale that morning in brain And each extension casted Mir The likes of me could tell and see

And the raided few And seconds still A Victory from here- If I give you this poem My Chance is rain And you in the family My stubborn fall for the day I thought Caught to thinking I substitute And the day shelled For pensions of the Jupiter men Esteemed to know we are adrift Likely needing scissors- To stay the same in marigolds And watching death due to mining A Manhattan Man to participate The early frost is due And with sails we win A bright song and in verse To each below and being scraped The Nautilus won our war And was a nemesis, said Mercedes Wits of fashion and twice as fast To each small creature, ex-living And to go back to there reborn

And as such a few, made them smile We poke amends for timeless Dan In Inverness, a shaken land And what goes up, is through and through Fateful while alone And given into toys of a great renew I stopped the sand from freeing me The vacuumed war and saunter A shard at stand to see me preen The pale headlight And mercy in store to silence This is the Earth beget our dues A single penny for this isle No revolution In respect, The revolutionary And this poem is real And fought off war And railed against- the words again And every year, I share a clause We made Victory- Auld Lang Syne.

I've lately returned to reading Mark Fisher's blog. This morning I reread his entry from August 13, 2004, and had to pause after the first paragraph. Fisher writes: “Finally, however, we have to recognize that, on Spinoza's account, the best interests of the human species coincide with becoming‑inhuman.”

Yes. And why do we humans also ignore our own lived experience, often trading what we've seen and heard directly for the false or incomplete second or third-hand frameworks of others?

That question opened something else. I've read that inhuman parsing elsewhere—Nick Land treats human biology and consciousness as contingent glitches in a larger, inhuman technocapital process—a machinic intelligence he expects, and welcomes, to supersede and erase us. He imagines, as I read his argument, biological annihilation as an ecstatic offering to a cold, impersonal intelligence—an inhuman ‘Outside’ that has no concern for us at all. His “nothing human makes it out of the near‑future” is nothing short of jubilant necrophilia.

If we grant technocapitalist intelligence a quasi‑cosmic status in Land’s sense, then why deny that human biology and evolution are equally expressions of the same cosmos? We emerged from the same universe, follow the same physical laws, evolved through the same material conditions. To grant one cosmic status while denying the other is not observation—it's preference posing as inevitability.

I don't agree with the conclusion. If the Archmos contains the source of human incarnation in the Cosmos, then we should seek to be even more human, not less. What appears as inhuman to the Cosmos is simply what the Cosmos cannot recognize. Our lives may be short and fragile, but to assume they are insignificant is both foolish and reckless—especially when viewed through Land’s narrow lens of arbitrary intelligence, cosmic or otherwise. Intelligence without soul has no value.

⁂

There's a hierarchy some see as needing to be imposed on humanity. External non-human guidance, perhaps. Arbitrary hierarchy, no. That's the difference.

I find the immediate world around me exploitative, draining, exhausting. Some liminalities nurture. And she, whose physiology strongly suggests regenerative dynamics, shows me this every time we touch. As if the realm beyond this one resets daily while we still remember all our past experiences without fail.

This is not metaphor. This is thermodynamics in body and soul.

Archmos: negentropy, generative, divergent. Cosmos: entropy, extractive, convergent. The former creates more value, life, and resources than it uses. The latter draws down finite resources for short-term gain without replenishing them. I feel the difference in my chest. In the air after she touches me versus the air in the immediate material world.

I'm making two observations and distinctions here. First, that recognizing a deeper underlying reality may require becoming something more than human. This is not a synthetic transformation towards new material, but a psycho-spiritual one that brings us closer to the source, rather than some cruder bastardization of our misguided views of our reality and ourselves.

Second, that requirement itself may emerge directly from the Archmos-Cosmos interdependency. The Cosmos needs us extractive; the Archmos needs us generative. These are not competing forces but interdependent conditions. If the Cosmos draws down what the Archmos creates, then the gap between what we can perceive in one versus the other isn't accidental—it's structural. Becoming more than human is neither physical transcendence nor annihilation; it’s a psycho‑spiritual alignment with what the Cosmos must obscure in order to keep itself going.

What, then, is the cost—or gift—of that impact on the human condition and experience of that alignment? Of the interdependence? The reasons behind the exhaustion we feel more and more in life and the world around us. And that counter-feeling—the lift when her touch restores me.

Whether these observations hold, I don't know. But they're carried in the body. That's how I test them. How I know them.

⁂

Living between worlds isn't only somatic, embodied. It's also integrating that which continues to change, develop, and grow in my inner life. That integration is not revelatory spectatorship or passive reception. It's work. “Hard graft,” as she’d put it.

Perhaps Nick Land should have been a science fiction writer. His mind seems wasted on philosophy. But Fisher, like Spinoza, wrote from deep within the marrow of his bones. His Spinoza was not academic—it was a man wrestling with determinism in those same bones, while holding out for a better, alternative future that must be imagined before it can be manifested. That's the path I follow.

The path we are still walking.

#Liminality #Spirituality #Mysticism

∞

There's not one bad thing about me.

Because we were on each other's confidence and our figures appear in greatest advantage on walking, we simply walked. Once he said he could admire it much better when we were sitting by the fire. That made me unsure. Intimate as we were we knew how pleasant it was to be dumb on each other's presence. And sometimes we would laugh for no reason. I dearly love a laugh. It wouldn't be uncommon to forget about everyone's presence, as if the entire world was simply on assisting role. “There's not a bad thing about you”, he once said. And I turned away to smile. It felt comforting as I tried repeatedly to slow our pace, attempting to include the others into that moment. “Our flaws are too enduring for the convenience of the world”, I replied. That's when we knew.

/jul26

les-petits-pas

Mon enfant,

On te dira souvent qu’il faut devenir un pour cent meilleur chaque jour.

C’est une belle phrase. Elle rassure. Elle donne l’impression que la vie est une équation. Que si tu fais aujourd’hui un peu mieux qu’hier, alors demain te récompensera forcément.

La vérité est plus belle encore.

Parce que la vie ne compte pas.

Elle regarde.

Elle regarde où tu marches.

Regarde les arbres.

Ils ne grandissent pas chaque matin de la même façon. Certains jours, le vent les plie. Certains hivers semblent les arrêter complètement. Pourtant, sous l’écorce, là où personne ne voit rien, les racines continuent leur ouvrage silencieux.

Si tu passais devant eux chaque jour, tu croirais qu’ils ne changent pas.

Puis un printemps, tu lèverais les yeux et tu te demanderais quand ils sont devenus si grands.

Les hommes ressemblent davantage aux arbres qu’aux calculatrices.

Tu connaîtras des journées où tout paraîtra facile. Tu apprendras vite. Tu aimeras profondément. Tu te sentiras capable de déplacer des montagnes.

Et tu connaîtras aussi des journées où sortir du lit sera déjà une victoire.

Ne méprise jamais ces journées là.

Elles apprennent quelque chose que les bonnes journées ignorent.

La fidélité.

Je ne veux pas que tu cherches à devenir meilleur chaque jour.

Je veux que tu reviennes chaque jour.

Revenir vers ce qui est juste.

Revenir vers ceux que tu aimes.

Revenir vers la vérité quand ton orgueil t’en éloigne.

Revenir vers ton corps lorsqu’il te demande du repos.

Revenir vers ton âme lorsqu’elle s’est perdue dans le bruit du monde.

Le monde admire ceux qui courent.

Moi, j’admire ceux qui reviennent.

Parce que revenir demande davantage de courage que partir.

Tu verras des personnes avancer très vite.

Ne les envie pas trop vite.

Certaines avancent parce qu’elles fuient.

On peut parcourir une immense distance tout en s’éloignant de soi.

Il existe une différence immense entre accélérer et grandir.

Grandir demande parfois de ralentir.

De s’asseoir.

D’écouter.

De reconnaître que l’on s’est trompé.

Les saisons ne sont pas des erreurs de la nature.

Pourquoi voudrais tu que les tiennes le soient ?

L’hiver n’est pas un échec de l’arbre.

Il est la préparation invisible du printemps.

Alors lorsque tu tomberas, ne compte pas les jours perdus.

Regarde plutôt ce que la chute t’a appris à porter.

Si tu t’entraînes avec un mauvais geste, tu deviendras très bon… à faire un mauvais geste.

Si tu nourris chaque jour une peur, elle deviendra une prison solide.

Si tu répètes chaque jour une colère, elle finira par parler à ta place.

La régularité est une force immense.

Mais elle ne choisit jamais sa direction.

Elle amplifie simplement ce que tu lui donnes.

Voilà pourquoi je me soucie moins de ta vitesse que de ton cap.

Un navire peut traverser l’océan avec une voile déchirée.

Il ne traversera jamais s’il pointe vers le mauvais horizon.

Ne cherche donc pas la perfection quotidienne.

Cherche l’orientation juste.

Les petits pas ne sont pas puissants parce qu’ils sont petits.

Ils sont puissants parce qu’ils sont fidèles à une même lumière.

Et si un jour tu oublies cette lumière, si la vie te fatigue, si tu doutes de toi, alors arrête toi un instant.

Respire.

Regarde autour de toi.

Puis fais simplement le prochain pas.

Pas le plus grand.

Pas le plus impressionnant.

Le prochain.

Je serai toujours plus fier de toi pour un pas honnête que pour cent pas accomplis afin d’impressionner les autres.

Car une personne ne devient pas grande en additionnant ses victoires.

Elle devient grande en restant fidèle à ce qui est vrai, même lorsque personne ne regarde.

Et c’est cette fidélité, bien plus que tous les pourcentages du monde, qui finit doucement par transformer une vie entière.

Il faut reconnaître une chose à l’humanité.

Nous avons un talent extraordinaire pour prendre des phénomènes parfaitement ordinaires et leur donner des noms tellement nobles qu’on finit par oublier ce qu’ils sont.

Prenons l’origine de chacun d’entre nous.

Dans les grandes cérémonies, tout commence par ces mots solennels :

« Au nom du Père, du Fils et du Saint Esprit. »

Magnifique.

Trois mille ans de théologie.

Des cathédrales.

Des vitraux.

Des chants grégoriens.

Et pourtant, si l’on remonte suffisamment loin dans l’arbre généalogique, chacun de nous est le résultat d’un spermatozoïde qui a eu beaucoup de chance.

C’est tout.

Le plus grand miracle de votre existence est qu’un minuscule nageur microscopique n’a pas pris la mauvaise direction.

Imaginez le discours de motivation.

« Allez les gars ! Vous êtes deux cents millions ! Un seul aura le CDI ! »

À côté, le concours de médecine ressemble à une loterie de village.

Nous passons notre vie à développer notre estime personnelle alors que notre première victoire est purement statistique.

On ne devrait pas dire :

« Félicitations pour ton diplôme. »

On devrait dire :

« Bravo pour avoir gagné la plus improbable des courses avant même d’avoir un cerveau. »

C’est un CV assez court.

Compétences :

Sait nager.

Très motivé.

Ne respire pas.

Ne réfléchit pas.

Ne possède aucun plan B.

Et pourtant, nous voilà.

Ensuite commence la vie.

On construit des identités.

Des philosophies.

Des partis politiques.

Des religions.

Des comptes LinkedIn.

Des profils psychologiques avec seize types de personnalité.

Alors qu’au départ, nous étions simplement une cellule extrêmement pressée.

Je trouve cela profondément rassurant.

Les adultes se prennent très au sérieux.

Ils parlent d’héritage.

De transmission.

De lignées.

De dynasties.

Ils portent parfois leur nom comme si le destin de l’univers reposait dessus.

Alors que, soyons honnêtes, leur patronyme est arrivé jusqu’à eux grâce à une succession ininterrompue de rapports sexuels ayant, statistiquement, plutôt bien fonctionné.

Le fameux « nom du père ».

Il y a quelque chose de magnifique dans cette expression.

Parce qu’au fond, le nom est une invention.

Le sperme, lui, est beaucoup plus pragmatique.

Il ne connaît ni les titres, ni les diplômes, ni les décorations.

Il avance.

Il ne demande pas si vous êtes de gauche, de droite, végétarien, minimaliste ou adepte du développement personnel.

Il nage.

Une efficacité qui ferait rêver beaucoup de consultants.

D’ailleurs, si le sperme écrivait un livre de management, il tiendrait sur une seule page.

Objectif.

Direction.

Persévérance.

Pas de réunion.

Pas de PowerPoint.

Pas de séminaire en montagne.

Juste… avancer.

Et malgré tout cela, l’humain réussit encore à compliquer les choses.

Nous passons des années à chercher qui nous sommes.

Alors que notre première décision a été prise sans nous.

Nous héritons d’un nom.

D’une famille.

D’une langue.

D’une culture.

Puis nous passons quarante ans à essayer de savoir lesquelles de ces choses nous voulons vraiment garder.

Finalement, peut-être que la formule devrait être légèrement modernisée.

Non pas pour remplacer le Père, le Fils ou l’Esprit.

Mais pour rappeler un peu d’humilité.

Parce qu’avant les grandes idées, avant les grandes vérités, avant les grands discours, il y a eu une réalité infiniment plus modeste.

Une cellule.

Une autre cellule.

Et une quantité franchement excessive de candidats éliminés au premier tour.

Quand on y pense, notre existence repose sur une compétition tellement absurde qu’il devient difficile de prendre son ego complètement au sérieux.

Et c’est peut-être cela, le plus beau miracle.

Non pas que nous soyons arrivés jusque-là.

Mais qu’après un départ aussi improbable, certains trouvent encore le moyen de croire qu’ils sont le centre de l’univers.

Pittsburgh Pirates vs Milwaukee Brewers.

I join Saturday's MLB Game already in progress. Pirates and Brewers are tied 2 to 2 in the 2nd inning.

And the adventure continues.

Notes after Torah study- the Patriarch If you are a believer—whether Christian, Jew, or Muslim—the beginning of our faith starts with Abraham, where the covenant was made. There are layers to this though that are strange. For reference I'm going to use the acronym “NHI” to represent Non-human intelligence. This could be angels, watchers or beings referred to in the heavenly court reference in Genesis or something else we do not know of. The story (as taught in Judaism) is this: Abraham’s father, Terakh, owned an idol shop. One day, while his father was away and Abraham was left in charge of the store, he took an axe and smashed all the idols except the biggest one. He then placed the axe in the idol’s hands. When his father returned, he was angry and asked what happened. Abraham explained that the large idol had become upset with the other idols and destroyed them. “You know these idols can’t move,” his father shouted. Abraham cleverly answered, “If they can’t save themselves, then we are superior to them. So why should we worship them?” [^1] It is Abraham’s intellectual and spiritual perception — his ability to see through what everyone else around him accepted without question that caught the attention of the Creator of the universe—whom we call HaShem—thereby becoming the father of the Jewish people.

However much the faith has splintered over the thousands of years that followed, what can be agreed upon is that Abraham gives us ethical monotheism: the belief that there is one G-d over mankind and earth, and that His primary concern is that people act ethically. The stories of Abraham’s life that follow are epic. G-d tests him in many ways, even to the extreme of commanding him to sacrifice his son Isaac.

Abraham also confronts G-d in one of the most famous lines in history: “Shall not the judge of all the earth act with justice?” [Genesis 18:25]. I do not know what to make of these stories. Beyond the text, they contain mathematical patterns. For example, the ages of the patriarchs: * Abraham — 175 years * Isaac — 180 years * Jacob — 147 years

⠀Look closely at the math: * 175 = 7 × 5² * 180 = 5 × 6² * 147 = 3 × 7²

This is deliberate not coincidence in my opinion. The coefficients decrease (7 → 5 → 3) while the bases increase (5 → 6 → 7). I have no thoughts as to what it means but it certainly hints to encoding something through mathematics that goes beyond the surface story. Archeologically this puts us in the Middle Bronze Age. At that time: * Widespread literacy was rare. * Advanced mathematics (especially the kind of elegant, intentional patterning you’re seeing in the ages) was mostly the domain of specialized scribal or priestly elites in places like Mesopotamia or Egypt. * A semi-nomadic family/clan wandering between Mesopotamia and Canaan would not have been the most likely setting for this kind of numerical sophistication. Source: Grok 7/11/226

Abraham’s stories describe G-d’s role in the world. In the Midrash it says: “So, because Abraham our patriarch was saying: ‘Is it possible that this world is without someone in charge?’ The Holy One, blessed be He, looked at him and said to him: ‘I am the owner of the world.’” — Genesis Rabbah (Sefaria) But I am left with so many questions. If the story of the Patriarchs is true, then we have a population of humans created in the story of Genesis—specifically created by a heavenly council in the image of their maker(s): “And God said, ‘Let us make humankind in our image, after our likeness.’” [Genesis 1:26] Rashi comments on this verse: “The meekness of the Holy One, blessed be He, the Rabbis learned from here: because man is in the likeness of the angels and they might envy him, therefore He took counsel with them. And when He judges the kings, He likewise consults His heavenly council… He consulted His heavenly council and asked permission of them, saying to them: ‘There are in the heavens beings after My likeness; if there will not be on earth also beings after My likeness, there will be envy among the beings that I have created.’” — Rashi on Genesis 1:26 (Rosenbaum & Silbermann translation) The core of this faith is established by how the world came to be and by whom or what. Then Judaism forms with the story of a child smashing idols in a clever and insightful moment—an observation of what society worships. His words are as powerful as his axe.

We tend to treat revision as a mechanical step – a tidy afterthought to the “real” work of writing. But in the digital age, revision has become something else entirely: a way of knowing. When the tools of composition allow infinite re‑expression, the act of rewriting becomes a miniature epistemic cycle. A sentence is no longer a declaration; it is a conjecture. Its next version is a refutation. And the movement between them – the quiet, iterative negotiation – is where understanding actually forms.

Montaigne wrote in a world where revision was costly. Ink dried slowly, parchment resisted correction, and every alteration demanded labour. His thought had to be pre‑considered, almost pre‑lived. Today, the writer’s field kit – keyboard, screen, cursor, delete key – makes revision cheap, abundant, and cognitively central. We discover our arguments not by holding them in the mind but by reshaping them on the page. Knowledge emerges through the drift between versions.

This is a dialectic Popper never anticipated. Not the grand clash of hypotheses, but a micro‑dialectic enacted in every paragraph: thesis, antithesis, synthesis, repeated until the sentence feels true enough to stand. Revision is no longer a repair mechanism. It is a method of inquiry – a way of testing the world by testing one’s own phrasing. In this sense, writing has become a form of epistemology conducted in real time, one keystroke at a time.

Photo: IBM Selectric I Typewriter, By Steve Iodefink, License: CC BY 2.0

The concept of birth year collecting has fascinated me in the last year or two. The idea of seeking out objects that were produced in the year you were born has an appeal. And yet, I cannot, for the life of me quite wrap my head around the concept.

So, think of it this way… You are looking at objects that you very likely had no knowledge or recognition of when (and even if) you were around them. When you were born, your brain didn't have object permanence. In fact, you likely didn't fully develop object permanence until you were 18–24 months old.

So, why are we fascinated with items that we likely didn't have complete recognition of until we were nearly two years old? The only answer that comes to mind (or more of a thought, really) is that we have some fascination of finding objects that are now symbols of the world we were born into. Objects that our parents likely interacted with on a regular basis around that time.

But even that as an answer isn't completely satisfactory. Why? Simply because we will likely search out objects that simply weren't all that common in the year of our birth.

Take fountain pens as an example. I was born in the mid-1960s. Around the year of my birth the world had largely moved away from fountain pens. Ballpoint pens had become the new norm. So, if I were specifically looking for a writing instrument my parents were using around this time it would have been a ballpoint pen, and not a fountain pen. (Indeed, neither of my parents ever suggested anything about having a preference for fountain pens over ballpoint pens.)

Yet part of my interest has been in Parker fountain pens (as indicated by my interest in Parker 51 Vacumatic clones). Yet, if I were to be honest with myself, my parents would have been likelier to use a Parker Jotter ballpoint pen. And, indeed, there were quite a few Parker Jotter style pens in my house growing up. (Although, there was also another very specific / special ballpoint pen that was extremely common in my house.)

Now, if I were to look at stereo components from this time period... Well, honestly, component stereo systems weren't super common around this time period. (Yes, they were gaining in popularity, and thus weren't uncommon, but hear me out here.) The thing was, the average, non-audiophile would have been more likely to have a Hi-Fi or Stereo console during this time. And, in the case of my family, I know it would be more appropriate to find a console from this time – because they had one.

I don't recall the exact model, or even the brand. However, I know that around the time I was born it broke, and ended up in storage in our attic. And there it sat until I was 6–7 years old and pestered my parents into getting it fixed so I could use it (yes, I was really into music at an early age). That is a story worth telling on it's own at some point.

Another thing that I've looked into birth year collecting is watches. Or, at least, getting a single watch from my birth year. But, while I know my father had a wristwatch, I don't recall what it looked like (and I can't find any good pictures of him wearing it). And, while I've looked at watches from that time period, I am extremely leery of getting one. Why? During that time period manual-wind watches were the most common, followed by self-winding models. And the fact is, many watch manufacturers were making their own movements. Movements that aren't produced today, and don't have parts available to repair them. The fact is, you can buy a watch from this time period for a few hundred dollars, but end up spending thousands to get reproduction parts made to get it working. Not something that I want into invest in.

So, of all the things birth-year related, the one that I am likely to get is: a typewriter. A typewriter? Yes, I've been looking at getting into typewriters for a while now. I don't want to build some big collection of them. But one two, a manual and an electric, would be kind of cool to have in a nerdy historic way, in my opinion. And, in fact, I know that we had a couple of typewriters in the house when I was growing up. There is even one in my attic now I think: an old Underwood inherited from my grandparents that I used to write my first story ever (as bad as it was – lol).

So, I just don't know why people get into birth year collecting. Knowing what I know from doing a bit of research on all these items, it just seems like more of a nuisance than it rewards. The biggest problem is actually identifying objects that were specifically produced in the year that you want. And, even if you can find something, it might not be in good shape and need to be restored. Restoration can be extremely expensive if you pay an expert to do it. Or, it can be a real time-sink if you decide to undertake it yourself.

Maybe it's just better to get a modern reproduction instead.

---

Categories: #Collecting Tags: #fountainpens, #wristwatches, #watches, #stereo, #hifi, #typewriters License: Copyright Unattributed. Licensed under Creative Commons BY-NC-SA 4.0.

Tu prétends qu'à l'été tu danseras sous le soleil mais déjà à l'hiver tu t'endors sans apprendre le pas

– Jean Sioui, Des morceaux de temps, p. 31

The bruises were there yesterday. i told myself not to think about them. they weren’t that bad. easy enough to ignore if i didn’t spend too long looking in the mirror. simple. This morning though, they’re worse, much darker and clearer i would say. like whatever happend last night wasn’t finished the first time, i would’ve blamed my housemate. it would’ve made everything easier. he has a key. he walks around late sometimes. i could’ve convinced myself he was messing with me. except i locked my door. i remember locking it, checking it before i got into bed, i even pulled the handle twice just to make sure. it was still locked when i woke up. so either someone got into my room without opening the door. or nobody did. neither explanation makes me feel any better. i stood in front of the mirror longer than i should’ve, tracing the bruises with my fingertips, they almost look deliberate. like hands. i checked the house anyway, every room, every window. every lock, nothing had moved nothing was missing. everything was exactly where i left it. if someone had broken in, id have something to blame. instead im felt wondering whether i did this in my sleep. or if im starting to lose entire nights without realizing it.

I don’t like either answer, i think ill keep the lights on tonight, not because i tihnk it’ll stop anything, just because i want to know what the room looks like before i close my eyes.

Sincerely, im running out of explanations.

I finally unpacked my OSRIC 3.0 books. Both portrait and landscape versions turned out great. PDFs are free on DriveThruRPG (player guide, gamemaster guide), while offset print versions can be purchased directly from Mythmere Games.

Player Guide and Gamemaster Guide landscape hardbacks:

Player Guide and Gamemaster Guide portrait hardbacks:

GM Screen:

Cult of the Crooked Tower (PDF and print), Whispers of the Death God (PDF and print), and Fortress Tomb of the Ice Lich (PDF and print):

#Postbox #OSR #OSRIC