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| suspensionrings (profile) wrote, on 12-3-2003 at 1:55am | |
| Was hunting around on the hard drive and found this. I was planning on compiling a complete history of F14/Neverland/The Underground/whateverthefuckIcallit, but of course lost my motivation. This covers a lot, though. I will attempt to explain. Againandagainandagain. But let us begin in the beginning: That Which Is. The Stormlands are a flat grey plain of sand so fine it seems like ash. Your feet don't sink into it like it seems they ought to, your toes are always catching on an unnoticed rock or glass shard. There are mountains, way off in the distance, that recede like a rainbow so that you're never too far, never too close. It's endless, it's boring, it's a metaphor for existence. The metaphor for humanity was That Which Is. She was a cube, eight or ten feet tall and hollow on the inside, with an open top. Her skin was blue-black gel with stars and fragments of wings and bone, to touch her is to be trapped within it. One was born here. Before she had a name or a face, One was in the Stormlands, running from That Which Is. She was eventually caught, and spent some time standing in the emptiness inside That Which Is, crying or staring up at the sky, wishing for the courage to fly. And then one day That Which Is touched her, but she was not trapped. For just an instant they intermingled and then One stepped through That Which Is. In that instant they understood everything about each other. That Which Is was a mother, One was a child. The fact that they were made to destroy each other did not change the affection they felt for each other, it possibly even deepened it. They loved as only the doomed can, determined to milk as much as possible out of each other's existence before it evaporated. At first it was That Which Is that comforted One, but towards the end their roles reversed and One held That Which Is as she died. One ran until That Which Is was no longer visible on the horizon, and sank to her knees. She thought she had escaped, finally, until the ground began to seep with with a bright blue liquid. One stood, but was helpless as That Which Is worked her way up One's body and into her throat. This all happened slowly, over a period of several days. If I'd had any sense of narrative flow it would have ended there, but reality doesn't like neat, clean endings, and the whole idea just sort of lingered and began to rot of old age. That Which Is and One learned to coexist, eventually, That Which Is replacing One's bloodstream with her own self until eventually dying a year or so later. The Brothers: Their names were Grim Cunning and Fury Malevolence. They were grey and red coyotes with claws of gold. They were the precursors to Dog and Sabø†age. Fury was loud, harsh, fast, and brutal. He enjoyed beating the shit out of anything and everything, blunt force trauma was his favorite pastime. He had a gun, but seldom bothered to use it save to pistolwhip somebody. Grim was the perfect compliment of Fury, silent and slowly deadly. Where Fury would attack without provocation or planning, Grim would wait for you to expose your weak point, and then strike, once and only once. He'd never need a second shot. They were almost spirits, in that their native form was coyotes [or rather, a painting of two coyotes] but they would seem human to converse with me. They can look like anything or anyone, if it suits them, and they have beautiful almost-glowing eyes. In the beginning we were three soldiars in a war against reality, backs to each other and sly grins on our faces. We knew who we were, we knew each other far better than anyone has before or since. It's not that we were parts of each other, just that we knew instinctively the minds of the other two. And as such we could never betrey each other, we would always be there. Nothing lasts, of course. In the very earliest days there was a city and they watched over it like patron gods, toying with its inhabitents and also protecting them when they needed it. It was something akin to utopia, which is why it should surprise no one that it fell. There was an earthquake, the city was deserted, and everything was reduced to a circle of light in the darkness. The only things I could see were a locked chest and the corpse of an old coyote, and the brothers prowling invisibly beyond. Eventually the city trickled back into itself, but it was just a shadow of what it had been, a ruins. There was a third coyote then, a white female with black jewelry and a tendency to glow. Her eyes were pupilless and soft, her voice a song, and her spine easily broken. Within a week of arrival the Brothers had killed her, and hidden her corpse so as not to panic the city. The three of them were gigantic stone pillars, holding up the remains of the city hall, when they killed her her pillar drained of color and began to crack. Soon enough the building fell, and the city fell along with it. It did not return. Somewhere around this time marked the birth of Sabø†age, and shortly following hers was Dog's. The Brothers isolated me in a cardboard box with steel on the inside and a window to look out of. Grim left to hunt, but he never said for what, and for the first time in forever I was worried about the health of my little monster. Fury stayed with me in the box. There was a rusting, uncomfortable bed with stained mattress, and an end table with a lamp that Fury wouldn't let me turn on. He became increasingly erratic and violent without his brother to calm him down or speak for him. Frustrated at his inability to say what he wanted with words, he would simply slam my head into the table and trust that I would understand what he meant. I usually did. When it appeared that Grim wasn't going to come back Fury gave me his gun and left, telling me to shoot anyone who tried to come inside. I hid in the shadows, trembling, as somewhere outside Sabø†age killed him. Dog had already killed Grim. A new ruler was born. Long live the king. [!break in the narrative: story segment] The wind outside is cold, pregnant with rain that explodes quietly on the window. In one of the corners there is a small leak, curling downwards and staining the wallpaper a brilliant rusty yellow. It looks like piss, it looks like vomit, it looks like old wood. I step in a puddle and feel the cold seeping into my toes through the rotten lining of my two-year-old shoe. The curtains jerk like a sleeping animal as I drag them shut, careful to keep my body away from the glass, my head out of sight. So much fear. So much paranoia here. And he's building a fortress with me. I turn towards him. Towards the source of the fear, my protector, my best friend. He grips his gun like a mood rock, finger running over and over the ring outside the trigger until it seems it must have smoothed and worn away. His eyes glitter in the faint light outside the door, he's already turned the lamp off. I'm staring at the black-on-slightly-less-black motion that I know he is and trying to bring myself to speak to it. So much to say. So little reason to say it. I just want to be reassured, but he's not the reassuring sort. So I just stand like a fool. He's watching the door like he expects something to come out of it. Like he expects the chunk missing from both out hearts to come in, dripping with rain and grasping a frozen haunch of dinner. Or a frozen haunch of foe. As long as there is blood, and as long as it is his brother carrying it, he would be happy. But he can't be, can't ever be, and we both know it. Grim is dead. We both felt it. He refuses to admit to it. I know he's going to do something stupid soon. He whirls, having made a sudden decision, and points to the end table. I can barely see it. He makes a jerking motion with his hand, frowning at me. I stumble forward, but not fast enough, he slams me into the chair and pushes my head down to the table. There are no words but I understand exactly what he means. Sit down, stay down, it's not safe here. I have bruises from his past attempts at communication. I ease into it. Nothing left but to rest. Wait. Shiver in the dark. One day, two days, red day, blue days. Ten or more. I look up. He's at the door. It's cracked open, he's glued to the wall like cops in bad action movies, half of his face illuminated in a sickening yellow glow. His eyes flick over to me. Something is unsaid, and understood. I suddenly want to cry. I stand up and walk over to him. His fingers slide across mine, dry and raspy as I feel the weight of the gun drop into my palm. I almost drop it, reflexively grab and re-grab in a staccato battle with gravity. I train my eyes on the door, he's halfway outside, his hand slithers like a snake over the railing and gives the wall a good tap before the door shuts. And locks. I stand in the dark and shiver. [/story] Sabø†age -- Sab is a loudmouthed, opinionated, violent, hateful neon green monkey. If you can't say something nice, scream something nasty, and then hit them for good measure. She hates everyone and everything, but mostly she hates me, because she knows me. That same total knowledge that allowed the Brothers and I to be lifelong allies allows her to bear a lifelong hatred. Because no matter how much I change, I will still be me, and that is something she cannot bear. She froths, she spits, she yells, she jumps around like a flea on crack and expects everyone to worship her obvious superiority. She is the little voice in your mind that tells you you're shit, and then says you're an idiot for listening. And she hates hates hates the notion of her, or anyone else "in here" being "real." Physically, she's 5'8" [my height] with absurdly long neon yellow/orange hair [my hair, plus dye]. She was human for a while, a funhouse mirror reflection of me, but she tends to look better as a monkey. Her eyes are completely black [soulless], her teeth are dull and flat [a representation of powerlessness, at least at first], and her tail is striped like a tabby cat's [it looks better that way]. She usually wears a bright blue T-shirt over a red and white striped turtleneck, plaid pants, and no shoes. Occasionally she will don a Seuss hat or some Lennon-style Ray-Bans. Sab is the one constant in all this mess. No matter who leaves, dies, or gets fucked over, I have the unhealthy feeling that she will always be there, looking over my shoulder and screaming whenever I do something wrong. Deadog is Sab's private nightmareland, she is its king and the Seuss hat is her crown. [Stupid, sure, but that's part of its charm.] It's a jungle where everything wants to eat you and Sab holds ultimate power. Deadog dreams aren't nightmares in the traditional sense, they're dreams specifically designed to bring waking problems into the hazy and inescapable world of the subconscious. They don't seem all that different on the surface, but generally if I spend all day in a funk because of it, it's a Deadog dream. I'm lessed stressed then I used to be, and have mostly stopped having them. Wh33. Eel Tea -- Last Tiamat was a psudonym I'm sure most of you remember me by. The character itself was never particularly deep, but towards the end of their [LT was plural, don't ask me why, they're just like that] existence they played the part of a mentor to the newer "voices". Mind you, they'd also acquired a gigantic wad of existential angst and bitterness in the transition, most of it directed towards Sabø†age. LT was mostly kept around for their age, as in here age = power and at the time One needed all the protection she could get. LT faded away unceromoniously a few months after they ascended. logic -- The quintessential detached scientist, and an obvious precursor to Torpor, logic was a floating blob of Photoshop effects that was, well, logical and emotionless. Or at least it liked to think it was, in the weeks before its death it was increasingly irritable and short-tempered. It actively loathed everyone else in the system, but failed to realize this about itself. It disappeared about the same time LT did, in roughly the same fashion. One -- Every system needs a weeping little child in the shadows, and One is that child. While the really angsty angst got transferred to November later on, One remained the root cause of most of my depression for the simple reason that she holds the heart. It's a small thing of indestructible glass that glows brightly at emotions and is constantly irrational. It [and therefore One] forms attachments to things or people beyond all reason or explanation, and will almost self-destructively ignore reality in its attempt to pursue them. This is the reason why Sab is what she is, a censor, without her One would rule and that would quite simply suck. One is a whitish, colorless zombie. Her flesh is rotting and constantly greasy, easy to part like cooked meat and not nearly enough to cover her. She doesn't look undead, there are no bones showing or intestines dripping [usually . . .], but it becomes obvious what she is as you pay closer attention. She's thin but lumpy, with visible ribs but a collection of fat in the skin of her legs and ass. Her hair is greasy red dreadlocks with no particular order to them. She has wings, tiny useless ones that are constantly dripping feathers. More often than not she'll be pierced with black iron rings, spikes, or chains, given to her by Sabø†age. She's had her stomach left open for days, her chest torn up, her eyes ripped out, her skull fractured a million times and still she is there, lingering like a bad smell. Her eyes look like dead fish, pupilless [soulless] and halfway rotten. Her voice is scratchy, erratic, her vocal chords having been ripped and abused so often. She doesn't generally have anything to say worth listening to, her brain is as rotten as everything else. Most of the time she is unaware of everything, those few moments of almost-lucidity are spent in a hallucinogenic daze. One worships Sabø†age. She's completely and utterly in love with her. Sab hates to admit it, but she loves One as well. In rare instances Sab has acted as One's protector, or comforted her when she was down. Usually, though, you'll just find her spitting insults and stabbing the poor girl until she can't get up. Dog -- Dog is sensuality. Dog is silence. Dog is chloroform and knife. Dog is the little whispers of violence in the back of your mind, the stray thoughts that hit you when no one is looking -- I wonder what she'd look like without a throat. I wonder how far you'd have to push him until he kills somebody. I wonder how long I could [youknow] before they cought me. -- She is the fantasy, the staying up late watching crime dramas, the obsession with Francis Dolarhyde. She is so, so foolish, and so, so brilliant. She's the only kind of beauty that matters, she's art, she's God, she's lust, she's sociophobia, she's hatred and love and everything all rolled into a little ball and silent as a dead cat's footsteps. She is completely impossible to explain to those that have not experienced some version of her, and needing no explanation for those that have. For all of this, for being a God, she is so incredibly fragile. Reality is like sandpaper across her eyes, a swarm of spiders on her skin. There are too many of you, you all move so fast, you are all so loud. She wants to make you stop, wants to make you quiet, wants to make you beautiful. She cannot stand faces, can't stand to be looked at. She loves everyone but expresses it with brutality. She is utterly alone and is not bothered by this. She met her maker a few months ago, and though Sab held on to her memory, Dog is most assuredly dead. Reality ate her up. She remains as a buzzword, a symbol, an idea that refuses to be lost. November -- November, like LT, existed prior to "ascension", but unlike LT it was unchanged in the process. November is a freak, a faceless, genderless, voiceless freak and it thinks everyone hates it for that. In the world it came from, it was locked up for being a mutant [called devas, or deviants, there] and isolated. Like any good fool it naturally assumed that all of this was its fault, that it was filth and garbage and deserved what was coming to it. November spends very little of its time awake, usually being so wrapped up in its own depression that it'll stay in the corner of its room, curled up in a little ball, for days or weeks on end. Torpor -- Torpor is the sequal to logic [he'll often refer to it as his "father"], again a detached, emotionless logician, but one who is aware of himself and the intensely, insatiably curious. He began as a genderless, vague entity, and evolved into easily the most complex person within. Physically Torpor is a gas mask with tentacles and a tail, more often than not attached to a tall [8ft] thin colorless human body and an old mud-stained trench coat. Mentally, he's a little bit of everything. Mostly he's a scholar or self-styled historian, attempting to preserve the memories of those who came before in the knowledge that he too will die, and would rather not simply disappear into the abyss as so many others have. He's more self-aware than anyone before or since, knowing that he both exists and doesn't exist, that I made him and that I am him, that everything's just a metaphor. Torpor has reason to question the validity of everything, especially religion. He demands to know the reasoning for everything, while knowing full well that most of his questions will never be answered, or will be answered unsatisfactorily. Yet somehow he persists in [mostly] believing in God. Mind you, he would under no circumstances worship It [pointless, silly, and rude], but he acknowledges the likelyhood of there being more on heaven and earth than is dreamt of in your philosophy. [He has to, or he'd have no reasont o believe in himself.] However, he has no belief in an afterlife, at least not for his own kind, because he knows that he isn't real. He fears beyond everything the oblivion that comes afterwards, the nothingness of death. This nothingis reflected in his "face," which is an emptyvoid, and yet somehow also contains an entire cosmos. "My God, it's full of stars." While usually so cold and detached, he can experience strong swells of emotion. This frightens him, as it was emotion that destroyed logic and he fears it'll do the same thing to him. He is quite fond of fast rock/metal, and is the only one of us that can dance with any grace. He's a decent lover, despite never putting any emotion or substance into the act. He loves Freedom Fries beyond all words, and feels great sadness at the thought that she too will die. He can and will defend the children [November, Freedom Fries, occasionally One] from Sabø†age, if he discerns there is a need for it, and if he feels he is strong enough to dissuade her. If it came down to it, she could kill him easily, so he has to be cautious and pick his fights. Freedom Fries -- The other half to the ubiquitous child aspect, Freedom Fries is a bundle of joy and giggles and pretty little butterflies. She's short [three feet or so], half gorilla half panther, with insanely orange dreadlocks and huge street lamp eyes. She was a child, an ignorant innocent who relied on Torpor to protect her from Sab and her own forgetfulness when he couldn't. But she cut herself off from the world, and returned a few weeks later looking like years had passed. She was a ghost, and a thousand times wiser for it. Freedom Fries is the voice of peace and love and all that hippy tripe. She and Torpor became almost inseperable after she returned. He feared losing her again, and she simply enjoyed having someone else around who wouldn't beat her, ignore her, or collapse into a little heap on the floor. Silence -- Silence's birth was an odd one. Where most of us will appear out of nowhere or gradually come into being as a vague idea, Silence was "incubated" as an alter ego inside Torpor. Torpor has no idea whether this makes them father and son, brothers, or nothing at all. Silence doesn't care. Silence is huge, created as a foil for Sabø†age. Despite his youth he is easily the most powerful inhabitant of the underground [barring One, who doesn't count as she's braindead], and the only one on whom Sab has no real effect. Sure, he'll snarl at her, choke her, hit her until she shuts up or goes away, but it doesn't ruffle his feathers, so to speak. Silence is liquid cool. He's above all this. Silence looks sort of like a big blue werewolf, Arnold Schwarzzeneger in body paint and a mask. His mask changes constantly, usually semi-abstract or deliberate ripoffs [in mindspawn.gif his mask is a rip of Push's]. He loves the fact that he is a bastion of honesty and the hypocrisy of one such as him wearing a mask. He's easily amused by such things. He is [I think, I haven't actually seen his face long enough to study it] the only one of us with pupils, but whether that means something or not only time will tell. The Warrens -- The warrens are where most of this took place after the city fell. They weren't a coherent structure at first, sometime around the birth of Torpor it was discovered that there were hallways and it all sort of fell into place. The halls are rounded, vaguely orangish with marbling that resembles vericose veins, lit by who-knows-what from who-knows-where. They tend to enlarge, shrink, and change direction at random, I have the feeling they operate in more than four dimensions. [maybe] The main hallway is a long, straight curve [youknowwhatimean]. At one end is a jumble of residential quarters, and some stairs leading down to near November's room. Of course, occassionally this room is upstairs . . . nevermind the geography, it means you no harm. November's room is your typically white padded room, no window, no inside handle on the door, white light so bright it blind. Go back up/downstairs, further along the main hall and take a right and you'll be in the conference room, which as its name implies is a meeting area complete with giant faux-wooden table with coffee stains on it. The lights are flourescent and vaguely evil, and there's a nook that keeps disappearing and reappearing that contains a water cooler. One entire wall is made up of windows, which look out on some generic section of Deadog. If you stand close enough to the glass, the deadflowers will try to eat you and bonk into it. Slightly further along and to the left is the library, which is seldom ever entered by anyone but Torpor. It's cramped, stacked to the gills with books, and a very happy place for a bookworm. Somewhere, I'm not entirely sure where, is the computer room, which is small, sparse, and contains only the computer, a chair, and a few toys in one corner for Freedom Fries. It's very dark, but not so much that you cannot see, like the very edge of dusk. At the end of the main hallway is the garden, a huge maze of topiary constantly in fog and occasionally glowing with fireflies. It makes up about 7/8ths of the warrens' 1-mile length. Somewhere downstairs, in a different section from November's room, is the steam room, which was once upon a time Sab's hangout and site of the worst transgressions against One. The entire back wall and a good portion of the floor is covered in rusting olive-green pipery, spurting steam from random junctions in perfect synchrony with Sab's mood. She doesn't use it much anymore, but it suited her perfectly when she did. The surface is the Stormlands, only recently rediscovered. A tree has sprouted there, and for a while they built a treehouse. But like most things, it was destroyed. Lately there are hints of the return of the city, and whispers of the Brothers. We'll see whether any of this pans out. Their Eyes- You can't see their eyes, any of them. Sabø†age's are completely black, soulless, just like One's rotting white. No pupils, no personality. Torpor and Silence hide behind their masks, Silence laughing at the hypocrisy of it while Torpor ponders the notion of unbeing. Even Freedom Fries is seeing through blank white orbs. Lack of pupils usually denotes blindness, I think that while they may not be blind literally they are all blind to something huge and right before their noses. One can't make sense of anything except love, rejection, and hope. Sab can't understand anything but fear and loathing. Freedom Fries whitewashes the world with hope. Torpor can't allow himself to be known. Silence knows exactly what he needs to do to be a better man, but he never does it. Never even takes a single step in that direction. Sab, 1, FF are all what you see on the surface. One has a mask, and uses it only for decorative purposes. Sab has a mask, but she hates it, it's stupid [she would have destroyed it long ago, but she's too egomaniacal to destroy her own face]. Silence's face is normal, mundane, perhaps that's why he hides it. The mask is the only thing that sets him apart from the masses. Torpor's mask is the only thing keeping him alive. He doesn't have a face, what he does have is as beautiful as it is incomprehensible and fragile. To know Torpor's face is like knowing someone's true name in the old stories, it gives you complete power over them. Complete knowledge of what they are. Oxytocin and waves of emotion- The key to understand all of this seems to be that though they are fragments, they are still joined in some primitive and powerful way. They all know, barring special circumstances, where the others are and what they are doing/feeling. A person can hide from the others if it wants to, but the default seems to be one of interconnection. Everything bleeds from one person to another, thoughts, emotions, sensations. Oxytocin is the heart and from time to time it flares up, "infecting" everyone around with its particular brand of [verb]ness. This has several effects: On the weak ones, particularly One and November, it paralyzes. It's a warm, gooey sensation, like being surrounded in tears or in utero. It's very, for lack of a better word, pink. And it moves like waves, pulsating with Oxytocin's beat. Sometimes this affects Torpor as well, particularly depression has a tendency to make him listless and irritable [as would be expected]. Silence has so far stayed out of Oxytocin's reach, but we'll see how long that lasts. This has a completely opposite effect on Sabø†age. She feels it, but rather than become wrapped up in it she just gets pissed off and manic. She's generally the most dangerous when something's pulling at the ol' heartstrings, because the fear of being weak enough to allow this to affect her, or of One going and doing something stupid, galvanizes her into action without the slightest pause for thought. The same sort of effect comes into play with Dog and Sab's rages -- a "wave" of pure emotion moves throughout the warrens and largely cripples everything in its path. With Dog this is sensation, sensuality, and often results in a great deal of visual/sensory hallucinations. Dog's effect on Sab is pronounced, and almost the opposite of Oxytocin's: She slows, becomes quiet, and pays attention to everything. But predictably enough, she remains tremendously violent in these moods, and more prone to raping people than ever. Sab's rages have only "leaked" once, with devastating results. It had built up for I don't know how long, and somehow got into Torpor. His mind retreated, he became a zombie for the rage and after several days of puttering around growling at things he retrieved Fury's old gun from a library drawer and went a-hunting for anything he could see. His marksmanship was shit, and he failed to kill anyone else, thankfully, but in some unknowable act of pique and desperation he turned the weapon around and blew his own brains out. He had been chasing Sab around the City [ I don't know how they got there, I don't want to know] and she crowed at this, laughing until she couldn't breathe. Silence had been recording it all with a stolen camera, at watching Torpor die he did nothing but move close enough to poke a chunk of brain with his toe and grumble discontentedly. Freedom Fries was in shock; Torpor had fired twice at her and come within a centimeter of killing her. One just lay in a heap, moaning. After a few minutes Sab stood up, casually walked over to the corpse and [after spitting on it, poking at the hole, kicking it, etc.] grabbed Fury's gun. She then proceeded to shoot Freedom Fries, One, and the already-decaying remains of November. She dumped FF's body into a ditch on the side of the road, left One's where it lay, and set November on fire. She would have killed Silence as well, but the bullets had little effect and he threatened to deprive her of her new toy. They've since come to an "understanding." I think Sab and Fury would have gotten along wonderfully had it not been for their other halves. Grim and Dog could never co-exist. Sex- Everybody's bi, but all have different preferences. Sab is madly in the closet and shrieks loudly about being straight even right after raping 1 or the h0r. She thinks of them as sex toys, which is how she avoids being labeled a fag. The fact that she thinks of everyone else as objects as well has no bearing on her strange logic. Torpor displays no interest in sex, but is willing and able to participate in it. It's actually a freakishly good lover, if you can get over being fucked by something with a mask and tentacles. One's completely submissive, and secretly loves the pain Sab inflicts on her -- not that she's a masochist, but she thinks it's Sab's way of showing her love. Which, in all likelyhood, it is. Paragraph break! LT was adamantly asexual -- it was one of the reasons they demanded to be referred to in the plural. LT preferred to lack gender and gender bias, preferring instead to be taken for a moron on their own terms. logic had no body, let alone genitals. The Brothers . . . were created too young to be into any of that, but I think if it came to it they'd only fuck someone they were love with, and be surprisingly gentle about it. Grim, at least, would be totally into that whole caressing business. Paragraph break, the sequel! Dog was a sexual predator, and as such she prefferred women because they were both more beautiful and physically weaker. While Sab was hosting Dog, she used this as a convenient excuse to deny her own lesbian urges, claiming it was all Dog's idea. Silence is celibate and likely to remain so until the end of time, sex and other forms of intimacy to him are like Torpor's face, it cuts too close to the heart to be allowed by anyone that he does not completely and without reservation trust. But like most of us, he displays no particular gender bias. Hr. Any questions, feel free to ask. I like rambling about my headpeoples. |
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NeegOen | 12-03-03 10:25am That was. Beautiful.
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cutlip | 12-03-03 4:47pm To be quite honest. I wanted to cry when there was nothing left to read. Like a good book or movie, it leaves you feeling empty. Like you're lacking something so completely and wholly that you don't know if you'll be able to go on without it. You feel betrayed, and you want it to come back, but seeing the same thing only brings back memories. Not feelings of accomplishment. And most importantly, closure.
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| darkman | Re:, 12-04-03 12:38am read the mind of your foe and to do this, feel them and look into their eyes... it's quite the book- drinks a sip of wine-
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cutlip | Re: Re:, 12-04-03 1:53am omgromgomg U R T3H AN0YING & I M T3h R)Xorzzzzs.q/!!11
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crowebasalt | 12-05-03 11:15am danke much, for sharing.
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