85 partes Concluida The bedroom holds sacred territory for me. The bed, its altar. One upon which I've offered sacrifices, so many to count and recall. One upon which I currently lay as I once more pay my dues, in taps and clicks.
I miss the days when the gods were content with the strokes and curves of the fluid dispenser. They seemed to have joined the fast-lane train, and thus demand new meals.
While I lay down and hit the keys with a mystic rhythmic sway, I hear the sounds as they hit my ears. No. They're not forceful. Not now, at least. Like music from the slow strumming of a guitar, these sounds bring messages. And memories. And musings. And a medley, sometimes.
And so it is, that I'm made to scribe. For when gods speak, their words are immortal.
Oh. Wait. They're just thoughts. I thought as much.
