Shit. Yes. Quantum Death.

I love you, Terry Pratchett.

http://www.ie.lspace.org/books/dawcn/dawcn-english.html

Thanks to fuzzybastard, for that.

To that end, keep reading the beginnings of my Thesis.

And Participate in the Meme.

{1.29am: Also, read Bex. Specifically this one.}

Finals.

It's strange, but i seem to understand the things on which i'm going to be tested, today. I don't feel nervous, or upset. So part of me thinks this can only be a bad thing...

Anyway, i'm off to take tests.

I'm going to keep pointing at the Beginnings of my Thesis and the Writing Meme, until more people respond to these. At present, i have two responses to write. Allow time.

Read and comment, comment and read. Or fucking call me. Dreamed an alternate ending to "Suicide Kings," last night: Everyone died, except Walken and Leary. Three of the bodies were put in a store display window, that was still the house, as an example.

I'm out.

thenowhere's Writing Meme, Installment 7: <user site="livejourn

It opened like a petalled thing, revealing insides and outsides, at once, and then quickly closing again, hiding itself. It had thorns, and sweet smells, and sometimes it seemed to want to ensnare, but would always shy away, at the last moment. I never knew what to feed it. I never saw it grow, or wilt, but it would seem smaller or larger, as if it had done one or the other. It didn't seem to prefer the light or darkness, but it hated and enjoyed people watching it. It would make pretty colours, so people would look at it...

It reminded me of myself, i guess.

But it wouldn't root, properly... And some days i didn't know where it was, at all. Chameleon and porcupine. A few times i thought i hated it, but i don't... It's not for hating. It was just trying to be itself (whatever that meant); just like the rest of us.

This piece was written for momentai, because he wrote this, because thenowhere created this meme:

"Write something for me. Just for me. Post it in your journal so everyone else can see it, too. A sentence, a paragraph. Nanofiction. Short story. A scene, dialogue, a picture described, a moment, anything. Long or short. But it's got to be just for me. Tell the world you wrote it for me, even. Mine.

Then feel free to put this up in your own journal, and I'll reciprocate."

An added thing: Continue the meme. Record the point of origin, ie thenowhere.

There's that one. Also, continue reading my thesis.

I'm off to write some more.

thenowhere's Writing Meme, Installment 8: <user site="livejourn

"We'll start with two, then to five." "Two plus five equals seven." ".... Yes it does."

"You're--

"Late, yes, yes, I know. Traffic was murder, and then there were the temporal monkies of the Shao-Lin."

"That was too much. There was some irony in there, I think, and since when do the Shao-Lin have temporal monkies? Did you do that?"

"No. Honestly, I thought it was you, because they were describing Cartesian Co-ordinate space, in the form of Interpretive Dance. Or maybe it was Jazz."

"I don't do Jazz. Too much structured free-motion, for my tastes. I like things that mean things other than themselves."

"Well... Yeah. . ." He looked around the coffee shop. "So.... Do you think they've fully tuned us out, yet?"

She looked at the waitresses, finding that all, except one, were moving about half a pace slower. "All of them who need to, for now. When's everyone else getting here?"

"I don't know, they said they were going to come in, and get some coffee, at the very least. Do you want my bacon?"

"I was just going to ask if you were going to finish that, thanks."

The bell over the door jangled, and three more people walked in. Walking a t a brisk pace, while the other clientel moved as if through air that was just humid enough to create a drag. They sat down.

The one in the black hat, scarf, and long jacket said, "Okay people, lot to do, this week. We've got some genuine messes out there, that need cleaning. For Today: You: East River, and I mean the middle of it. You: You're going to St. Peter's and... just look for where they keep the scalpels; trust me, you'll find it. You three," he said, looking at the first two, and the blonde who'd walked in, with him, "Just... Walk the city."

They looked at him, waiting to hear something else. The man who'd been waiting with the girl, leaned forward. "What do you Do, all day?"

He started to take off his hat, coat, and scarf, pausing to drink some of the coffee. He smiled, at them all. "Me? I like to watch. See you kids, later today."

He pulled out the book he was reading, as they left, and settled in for breakfast. He would have to read fast. He had a lot of catastrophe to cause, today, and a lot more lessons, to dole out.

This piece was written for reannaremick, because she wrote this, because thenowhere created this meme:

"Write something for me. Just for me. Post it in your journal so everyone else can see it, too. A sentence, a paragraph. Nanofiction. Short story. A scene, dialogue, a picture described, a moment, anything. Long or short. But it's got to be just for me. Tell the world you wrote it for me, even. Mine.

Then feel free to put this up in your own journal, and I'll reciprocate."

An added thing: Continue the meme. Record the point of origin, ie thenowhere.

Participate in the Meme, continue reading my thesis.

I await.