the Figmental Planes

Regarding Wonky Piracy Statistics

2010-01-30T21:07:00.000-08:00

Ubisoft, a games developer and publisher, recently insists they're going to put a system in their upcoming game, which requires you to be logged on to their server at all times, so that they can check on you and make sure you're not using a pirated version of the game.

The trigger was the sales of Assassin's Creed, the prequel to this new game. They claim that they have only sold 400,000 copies of Assassin's Creed for the PC, whilst an estimated 700,000 copies were pirated.

To put things into perspective, before Assassin's Creed came out on the PC, about 6 million copies were sold for all the consoles, PS3 and Xbox what-have-you.

The thing I want to ask is: 700,000 copies of something that was essentially FREE?? Doesn't it say something when your console version sells 6 million, and the PC users can't even be bothered to get it for FREE? Certainly, if you started giving out Ferrarris on the streets for nothing, people will be all over themselves trying to get one.

Here's the thing: publishers of all forms of media, be it music, movies, videos or games, always claim that they have lost MILLIONS if not BILLIONS to piracy, using the number of pirated copies as the basis for this absurd statistic. Would you think that there would be THAT many people getting it if weren't free? If it were impossible to pirate, most people would just do without. Claiming you're losing an arm and a leg is an exaggeration to ridiculous proportions.

And yet, back to Ubisoft.... 700,00 copies pirated? How many of those people do you imagine would be getting the game if it cost them USD50 instead of nothing at all? And yet you're going to spend MORE money to inconvenience your paying customers? Honestly, is it me, or has the world of overzealous witch-hunting (or in this case, pirate-hunting) gone even more insane than usual?

Apologies for the rant, but I just thought that all too often, businesses go blindly berserk and forget to keep things in perspective, all because they believe they're losing out on wads of cash. Perhaps you should consider whether the money would have fallen in to your hands anyway.

The Attempted Hanging of Jiminy "Quickfingers"

2008-05-11T08:24:00.000-07:00

Jiminy "Quickfingers" is, however you see it, a thief.

To say he was "quick" would be an understatement.

In fact, to say that you couldn't see his hands would be quite the wrong statement as well.

You could always see his hands. It was just that while you were watching his hands, your purse or wallet somehow found a way into his pocket.

And today, Jiminy was going to hang.

It would probably be easier if he wasn't such a lovable rascal.

Despite it all, he never really took more than his victim could afford, and so it quite puzzled him that, while most poor people don't mind parting with a dollar or two, the rich were inclined to have him killed over a nickel.

And so, today, he walked out from his cell, toward the gallows, amidst a silent crowd who have come to witness his death.

He took the rickety wooden steps, up onto the rickety wooden platform, and came to a stop beneath the noose which was to be his death. The executioner stood next to him, upper torso bare, head in a black hood. There was no expression to be read there. He was just a man with a job to do.

Quietly Jiminy stood, as the noose was pulled over his head, and the knot tightened around his neck.

Another man was there, standing a little way away. Jiminy wasn't quite sure who he was, but he was reading from a list. It was a best-of list of his many and, to be honest, sometimes incredible crimes. He could make huge items disappear before a room full of people. He could spirit away items and the room would still be locked after.

Basically, no one had any evidence that he had committed any crime, apart from the fact that things unmistakably go missing within his immediate vicinity, and often, at that.

They therefore did the only thing they could do, which was to have him executed without a trial.

Even so, Jiminy wasn't paying attention. After all, the next moment needs his full concentration.

The man finishes his list, and turns to Jiminy.

"Have you any last words, my son?"

Jiminy raises his head, but says nothing. He merely nods.

The man, in turn, nods to the man in the hood.

The executioner turns to a big lever set in the floor, grasps it in both hands, and pulls.

The trapdoor beneath Jiminy's feet slams open. He could feel the ground disappear from under him.

There were one or two gasps as he falls thru the trapdoor, ending with a thud...

And a slithery noise as of some serpent, as ropes slid gently to the ground.

There was absolute silence...

And Jiminy stood there, both feet on solid ground, arms outstretched for balance.

In the shocked soundlessness, he takes a moment to make a mental check that all his neck bones are intact, and then carefully, very slowly, he straightens up and raises his head to the crowd.

A wide smile breaks across his face like a brilliant new dawn, and, with much grace and beauty, he bows to the now masses, which by now were cheering madly for him.

It was such a beautiful moment that he didn’t even immediately realize the rough hands grabbing him under the arms. The guards then begin to drag him away, with Jiminy’s face still set in a silly grin.

As they do so, you could hear one of them hiss: "Alright, wise guy. Next time, we shoot you".

the Prayer

2007-08-16T07:13:00.000-07:00

In the silence of a little upstairs bedroom comes the little voice of a little girl.

Amidst the little fake plastic glow-in-the-dark stars comes a little prayer, a small message of hope.

And we see the little girl, kneeling on a small stool by the side of the window. By the dim bluish light of the stars in the velvet night sky, we can see her little face scrunched up in concentration.

"Stars above, hear my plea,
From up above, carry me,
Away from here, away from fear,
Away from any cause for tears."

She unclasps her hands and put on a smile. She got up carefully, her bright eyes transfixed on the stars that would be her saviours.

Then, she jumped.

2007-04-27T07:51:00.000-07:00

fanart of SPAWN, which was created by Todd McFarlane. Admittedly, could have been done better, but no time at the present. Maybe in future...

Pandemonium

2007-04-07T05:10:00.000-07:00

"I can't let go..."

"You'll have to. Your judgment's screwed up, and you don't know what's going on. Jealousy and stupidity is going to cause you to make one bad call after another. You want another debacle like the last one?"

"I didn't mean to. I guess I jumped the gun. Like I always do."

"Exactly. So what? So she meets up with other guys. So she might even LIKE one of them. IT'S NOT YOUR LIFE. You can't keep guessing. If you keep thinking she hates you and likes someone else, you'll tear yourself to bits. If you keep guessing she DOES like you, you're only setting yourself up for future torture. YOU LEAVE HER TO LIVE HER LIFE THE WAY SHE WANTS TO."

"If only I knew her better. Or if only she knew me."

"Too bad. She doesn't want to know. You might even have had a hand in that. It's like that. You took a chance, you lost. You can't change it. So live with it."

"What would be the point of love if it were so easy to let it go? But why can't people just talk about it? Wouldn't it make it better?"

"PHht. When the atmosphere is as awkward as this, you think anyone would want to stay in it any longer than necessary? You count yourself lucky she would even talk to you at all, instead of ignoring you completely."

"How do I know she isn't?"

"Well, she still talks to you SOMETIMES, right? Admittedly only when it's something important, or you started the conversation and it's important enough..."

"I'm really screwed up, aren't I?"

"Yea, you are. Thing is, even you don't know who you are. Even you don't love who you are. How can you expect anyone else to?"

"..."

"You think about it. But not too much. You know how your thinking's been screwed up lately."

"... yea."

"Now stop talking to yourself, and get to work. It's not helping that you're sitting here typing this when your project's still hanging by a thread."

"Yea... I ought to. Damn it. Why do I always have to make things so bloody COMPLICATED??"

"Don't ask me, man. If I knew, you probably wouldn't be in this mess..."

Theory on Duality (the Nature of the Beast)

2007-03-19T07:59:00.000-07:00

Take it on faith that humans are essentially animals.

They have very animal instincts and desires: they have a tendency to nurture, to reproduce, to fight and to kill.

However, owing to what is generally called the human intellect, humans have, for their common good, formed ever-growing societies, and society is a game of rules. The rules do not necessarily make sense, nor are always similar between societies. Since the rules are constructs of intellect, they generally follow the needs of thought, not of emotion. These rules particularly inhibit animal-like behaviour. By these rules, humans are not to fight, to harm, or to kill. They are to keep their emotions and desires subdued to a socially acceptable level.

Naturally, in order not to be expelled by society, most people conform to these rules, only breaking them on occassion, often when they believe no one would notice.

Conforming, however, would require supression of the animal instinct. Most people, then, would carefully fence their destructive, beastly self. However, since the beast is a natural part of them, it usually shows through from time to time, manifesting as explosive outbursts or heightened aggression.

As in most games, some people are better at it than others. The best players, unfortunately, build not just fences, but walls. These are the people who, on a daily basis, show little to no anger, hardly any aggression, and are generally very, very nice people. As time passes, segregation occurs, and generally two separate selves can be observed. One is socially acceptable, and is in fact a perfect role-model - helpful, generous, kind, meek and benign.

The other, is the beast. This is the cold, calculating bastard who is trapped behind the walls, taking note of every hurt, every injury, and making a list. This is the one who keeps score, who thinks of all the angles, and is generally the ultimate pessimist.

Initially, this may not pose too much of a problem. However, as days go by, the beast becomes overly internalized. Behind the walls, it is cut off from the outside world, and lives on the shadows of what it once knew to be reality. This new reality is often warped by its sense of anger and injustice. It tenses as the outward self is battered and beaten*, and howls with increasing ferocity in the deepest corner of the mind.

When a beast is locked up on its own for far too long, it grows restless, it grows angry.

It grows insane.

And when the socially acceptable self finally takes one pounding too hard, when it finally realises that the world cuts the

throats of the meek, when it falls too hard to get up... the beast is freed from its cage.

Then, it all breaks down.

*it is observable that while we take pride in being different from animals, we often admire or even worship people who are close to the beast. We like people who take charge or display, to a certain degree, beastly behaviour.

The Story of Hiupfutsch and Gloomongle

2007-01-26T11:58:00.000-08:00

<This story is about Hiupfutsch and Gloomongle. The names were coined by Ast. Prof. George Thimm. This is a draft. Leave comments on how you would like the story to progress from here>

Ah! How vast is the ocean! On a clear day you could see the edge of the world! But everyday he would reach it, and find not an edge, but still more sea to cover, and another horizon would beckon far beyond. It was lovely.

Hiuipfutsch was as free as the breeze that carried him, on his little raft with its little white sail.

“It’s just like how I imagined it,” said Hiupfutsch, “except that I wish so much that I could share it with someone”.

He looked back upon his raft, clean, new, but quite empty. It is a good thing Hiupfutchs don’t eat. He sighed.

Glancing down, he stared down at his reflection in the water, a red square against a backdrop of blue sky. He wasn’t sure what he wanted to do, really. Of course, he had dropped anchor at some towns before; great cities, even. He hadn’t liked it much, because there the horizons were fixed. You could walk, maybe a day, maybe a week, maybe a month, but you could be sure that if you kept at a straight line, one day you would come back to the ocean, and the ocean would call to him. So he always set off quickly after he lands.

He’d met other seafarers too. It never really worked out, and he wasn’t sure why. He tried being nice, but it as though he seemed awkward instead. He tried being mean, and, understandably, the other parties left quickly. He tried being clever but ended up being confused, and he tried keeping quiet, but they failed to notice him and quickly passed him by.

Yup, he thought to himself, I have everywhere to go, but I’m really lost.

*bump*

His raft rocked him jerkily out of his reverie, throwing him flat onto the timbers. Shaken and uncertain, he lifted his head cautiously.

He stared. Two eyes stared back.

It was another sailor, alone, on a little raft, with a little white sail.

He looked up at the little flag at the top of the mast. ‘Gloomongle’ it said.

He looked back at the two eyes framed by a round, green face.

“Hello,” said Hiupfutch, “I’m Hiupfutsch”.

And the two seafarers, alone on the ocean except for each other, smiled.

Keep in Mind:

2007-01-18T08:01:00.000-08:00

Note to Self : Stop Committing Suicide...

the Scarred

2006-12-01T10:03:00.000-08:00

See me now, a heart shriveled and scarred, scaly to the touch, hard as stone, dry as sand.

See me now, and know that it was not always like this. I am flawed; I am imperfect, for I loved.

And each of you came, in your pain and your suffering. You came to my embrace, to my comfort. Suddenly, you came, and I held you and consoled you and offered your heart my own.

And so piece by piece, little by little, you each have taken from me. A small part of me to patch your souls; a small part of me to mend your wounds; a small part of me to make you whole.

But suddenly, you left. Once whole, you left. I was left to my own wounds, to the gaping holes from which you took to fill your own.

Wounds too deep and too often tend to scar.

And so here I am, hard and bitter, cruel and insane. I embrace you no more; I cannot call you friends. I cannot call you friend, for I do not know friend from foe. My heart is shriveled and scarred, scaly to the touch, hard as stone, dry as sand.

I am flawed; I am imperfect, I always have been; for I have loved, and I always have.

the Jester

2006-12-01T10:02:00.000-08:00

He brushed his hand across the surface. It produced a typical, sandy sound.

The wall was solid, like every wall in the past.

He let out a sigh, then turned around and walked away. His footsteps could be heard fading and dying as his retreating figure became a small dot in the horizon.

The ensuing silence lasted for a few moments, before a certain rhythmic sound could be heard. "Pitter-patter, pitter-patter", it was the sound of rapid footsteps. Following soon after was the battle-frenzied warcry, the kind that a man would give out when all had been spent, and the rest came with fate. It was the kind of warcry that one would hope went to the gods and the world, in the hope that someone or something out there knew how much this dream was worth. Everything was focused at that one moment in time, every bit of energy, every bit of passion. Even his very pride has been put on the line. All this into the approaching figure of a man, determined that this time, it would work. This time, it would all be different. And then...

*CRaCk!*

It was a wet, snapping sound, the kind you get when a nose gets broken, which is exactly what happened. Then came the painful thuds as each elbow, each knee and each rib came into forceful contact with a wall which, just as his subconscious had warned him time and time again, was every bit as solid as the last. And the one before that. And the one before that...

There was a moment of silence as he floated through the air, droplets of crimson blood trailing from his nostrils. Then came a couple of thumps, and a sandy noise, not unlike when he had brushed his hand against the wall. It was the sound of a broken man ricocheting off the wall and landing a couple of feet away.

That was it. Everything, all that he had, thrown into a dream that was again shattered.

Miserable and broken, he lay there quietly. He was out of breath and in great pain, but he did not even breathe. There was a complete silence. It was not just an absence of sound, but a vacuum that seemed to cover and smother him.

Then he heard it.

Softly at first, but growing, he heard something like the sound of soft rain pattering onto the ground. As it grew louder, he realised that it was applause. He could hear the faint whistle of an invisible crowd. It seemed to surround him. Ignoring the pain that coursed through him, he opened his eyes, and finally, he saw it. It was some sort of crowd. He could make out many faces, most of them humanoid, some mostly humanoid, and some shapes that he could hardly describe at all.

Hundreds, maybe thousands of eyes looked down upon him from the clouds above. The gods were cheering. But they were not cheering for him.

They laughed and they hollered, not in encouragement, but in the way one would laugh at a clown or some situation comedy on a television set.

One particular voice echoed through our protagonist’s head, louder than the rest. It was his own.

He laughed, and he laughed, and he laughed some more, till his breath was spent and tears were rolling down his eyes. So this was what it is. This was Fate, and Fate had made him entertainment for the gods. His whole misery, his entire life, served no more purpose than to be a joke, one big laugh after another.

Still giggling, he managed to get enough air in his lungs to pull himself up off the ground. Pain wracked his body, both from the wall and his manic laugh after.

Still, he felt oddly relieved. He took one more look at the wall, one last, longing look, and then he turned and walked away.

He would no longer be the jester. From now, the only way is up.

Tragic Heroes - Speed Devil Conclusion

2006-12-01T10:00:00.000-08:00

The truth is, Mason had figured it out. It's just that he didn't like the prospect of being locked up in some mad house just because he did.

It was later found that the smear on the brick wall was Alex Streaker. He was a promising young lad, 16 years old, and a champion runner in his school. This has proven to be fatal.

On that Saturday morning, he was heading to the store to get some groceries. It was a quiet street, and no one was about except for an old lady in a blue smock dress carrying a basket.

She was walking ahead of him, but suddenly, as if on an impulse, she turned a right angle, and began ambling across the street.

A distant rumbling reached Alex's ears, and he looked up the pot-holed tar road and saw it: a big blue truck, the type you see in movies, heading straight for the blissfully oblivious old lady.

Alex froze for a split second as all the resources in his body were taken up to fuel his now furiously thinking mind. He came to a decision, dropped his own bag, bunched up his leg muscles, and ran like he never ran before. Literally.

It seems that Alex Streaker had an as yet undiscovered talent. He had superhuman speed. Too bad, then, that he didn't have superhuman reflexes. Or superfriction shoes.

If we slow down the entire event, we would see Alex accelerate at an astounding rate toward the old lady, raising his arms to catch her, miss, attempt to brake, fail, skid, and slam into the solid, and above all, terminally immovable red brick wall.

Sometimes, it just doesn't pay to be super. Or at least only partially super.

But who'd believe such a story anyway?

Tragic Heroes - Speed Devil pt. 1

2006-10-09T08:05:00.000-07:00

"Looks like a really weird one, sarge"

It had been a normal day. A normal breakfast in the morning, normal paperwork all the way until a normal lunch. It seems that after that, normality went to lunch too.

"So what exactly have we here?"

"Well, sarge, we got a bloke who's pasted on the wall over there on the other side of the street. Practically had to scrape 'em off for the forensic boys. We got little patches of what looks like burnt rubber makin' a track like all the way from here to the wall. By the end it just turned into two streaks though. We got a bag here, we think maybe it'd help us find out who the poor fella was."

Sergeant Mason was already following the trail of black stains across the street. True enough, they led right up to the red brick wall on the other side, and the patches had turned into two straight streaks by the time it reached the wall. Blood was smeared across it, dark red upon the bleached brickwork. The blood-stain pattern looked familiar. It looked like what you would get if some poor sod had flung himself off a twenty-storey building. You could see faint cracks and chips off the wall where the body had apparently smashed into it.

"Yea, sarge. Looks like the bloke got flung into the wall. Thing is, it can't be a fall, cos the fall'd have to be 'orizontal"

"Any witnesses?"

"Two. We got an old lady, said she saw the whole thing, or rather didn't, and the truck driver."

Mason turned to look at the vehicle. It was huge, the kind they called a sixteen-wheeler or something. It was new, and quite impressive. Most of the surfaces were coloured in a soothing shade of blue, and the parts that weren't gleamed in the afternoon sunlight.

He walked toward a large man in overalls and a red cap who was being questioned by one of his men.

"You the truck's driver?"

"Yea. Jason Walker," he said. The questioning was apparently not going down well with him, and he had his arms folded in front of him. There was a clear defensiveness in his voice.

"Tell me what you saw," said Mason, ignoring the trucker's obvious displeasure.

"Didn't see much. Was driving down this 'ere road, when I saw this old lady crossin' the street without so much as a glance toward me. I swerved, but I thought I still hit 'er..."

"Why's that?"

"Well, I heard a loud bang, and I thought I'd run 'er over"

Mason gave this some thought, rubbed his chin, then decided to move on.

"Carry on, corporal."

The old lady was mostly nondescript. She was wearing a dress in the same shade of blue as the truck. She was carrying a wicker basket which seemed to hold a blanket of some sort. She seemed to be searching for something, and did not glance up even as Mason approached.

"Kitty! Kit! Where are you, you blasted flea ridden..."

"Excuse me, madam."

"Say what? Hey, you're a copper! Help me find me cat."

"In a moment madam. First off, tell me what happened."

"Did you say 'what happened'? Well, one moment, he was in the basket, the next moment he's gone!"

"I meant, with regard to the truck here and the big red bloody stain on the wall," Mason said, and regretted it immediately. It was turning out to be a trying day.

The old lady stared at Mason until he had to look away and feint clearing his throat. Apparently she had very sharp hearing when she wished to, and also a very strict concept of politeness.

"I won't have that kind of language," she said sternly.

"I'm sorry madam."

"In any case, I didn't see anything. I was crossing this road when I heard this loud swoosh and a big gust of wind scared my Kitty into jumping out and running off. Then there was this loud bang. That's all there was to it. Now get started on finding Kitty. I don't pay my taxes just so you get fed and slack off the whole day!"

"And the truck?"

"What truck?"

Mason left it at that. He had a feeling that questioning this lady any further would in the end result in another death in the vicinity, and his boys were overworked as it is.

"So, sarge? What do you make of it?"

"I'll think of some excuse for this later. You don't want to know what I really think."

And Mason walked off to get some paperwork done.

The Land of Good and Evil

2006-10-09T08:03:00.000-07:00

We continue the adventures of our little song faerie.

Having lost her music, she decides to set off in the direction of the most likely culprit: the home of Evil.

It didn't take her long to reach her inevitable destination. Indeed, it only took her a few hours to reach the middle of nowhere, quite lost.

She knew she was near the House of Good and Evil, and so she decided to ask for directions.

She saw someone likely to be the leader in the vicinity, and tried to find her bearings. She was looking for Evil, but thought better than to ask so directly. Instead, she decided to ask for directions leading to Good, and since they were siblings, she should inescapably find Evil, and have her music returned.

"Excuse me, where may I find the house of Good?"

"Oh, it's right up there," said the leader, pointing to distant hill.

"Thank you."

She gave a curtsey, and went on her way.

The House of Good and Evil was odd, in its way. You could say it was white, or black, but more likely it was in shades of grey. It made your eyes water and your mind even more watery just staring too long at it. Our faerie decided to go in before her eyes got too confused.

Inside, it was much more plain. The walls still had the same mind-numbing quality, but in the centre of the house was a single large chair. It was almost a throne. On it, someone was seated. It seemed like a nice someone, doing nothing very much.

"Hello there! Are you the one known as Good?" she called out, in the sweetest manner imaginable.

The person smiled and nodded.

The faerie looked about hopelessly. There was no one else there. The sibling Evil was nowhere to be seen. Either she has just missed him, or Evil lived in a different house.

"Does Evil live here, too?"

"Yes."

"Oh..." she sighed and pouted a little, just a little. "I'll come back some other time, then".

"Alright," said the person on the throne, who gave a wide grin and waved her goodbye.

She went out the door, down the hill. Then she slapped her forehead.

"How silly of me! I should have asked when Evil would be in!"

She stopped another seemingly leaderly figure.

"Evil's definitely still up there. I was just up the house before you!"

She stormed up the hill again. The nerve of some people! Lying about their own names! And wasting all her time and energy no less!

She saw "Good" on the chair, and her rage was immense: "You're Evil! I thought you said you were Good!"

The very walls seemed to tremble (although it was perhaps the odd colour again). Yet the one on the chair simply smiled calmly.

"We are one and the same. It just depends on the direction you're coming from."

Our little faerie furrowed her brow.

"Then did you take my music from me? And don't lie..."

She watched as Good shook Evil's head. Or perhaps it was the other way around. Or something.

She stood for a moment, trying to find some retort, or at least something to say. Her first assumption was wrong, and Evil was not to blame. After a moment, she decided to just leave it at that. Disappointed, our faerie once more took off down the hill, and wondered where she should go next and how much further she would need to go...

The Lost Song

2006-10-09T07:59:00.000-07:00

There are Song Faeries among us. They sing to us day and night, in waking and in sleep. They are the songs stuck in our heads, and the melodies playing in our hearts. They are linked to the very soul of music.

It is only logical, since they are the reason songs are stuck in our minds, that they, too, have songs playing in their heads all the time. It stands to reason. Our tale, however, concerns one faerie who doesn't, at least not right now.

It happened one day when she awoke from her little flower bed (ie. her flower is her bed). She woke up to silence. Not just the silence that was due to the absence of singing birds and chirping crickets and lawn mowers and concrete-pounding construction work. She awoke to complete silence. There was silence in her mind.

She had lost the music.

Like all young faeries who faced something new, she panicked. Like all young faeries who panicked, she consulted her mother. And then, like all young faeries who consulted their mothers, she didn't listen.

"I'm off to search for the music, mother! I can't live in silence for the rest of my life!"

Her mother was older, and given the number of years that requires, she was also very, very much wiser. She kept generally silent, packed some things for her young daughter, and sent her off.

But there was just the hint of a smile as she watched the young faerie's back shrink into the horizon...

of Song Faeries

2006-10-09T07:54:00.000-07:00

Is there a song stuck in your head again? Can't get it out? Sometimes you don't even know where it came from?

Blame the song faeries.

Song faeries live by music and song. They love nothing more than singing out to the world any song that they come to fancy. They would sing beside your ear, or even your head. Irritating, perhaps? Mischievious, definitely. They are faeriekin, after all. Possibly the only way to stop them singing the same song over and over for hours or days would be to give it a new song (which it will then proceed sing over and over for hours or days).

Our little story, however, will concern one song faerie in particular. She is a young faerie, by faeriekin standards, and therefore inexperienced and headstrong; we shall follow her as she journeys out into the world in search of the song she lost...

the 1st entry...

2006-10-09T07:51:00.000-07:00

It is night.

Tendrils of darkness, frightening yet enticing at the same time, are kept at bay only by the flickering neon light. Yet it waits, just beyond the window, beyond the reach of the glaring white light. It waits, like it has waited for eons. Before the light, there was only darkness, and it is exceedingly patient.

On this side of the window, however, comes the final tap-tap-tap as an odd little creature finishes the first entry of its log.

Its hands stop. It pauses. The light on the ceiling seems to grow dim. Or perhaps it is just its mind.

It turns to watch the scene outside the glass panes, and smiled as it saw night's greeting - the terrifying, soothing strands of night... The creature plucks itself from its seat, and at long last, holds out its hands to embrace the blackness beyond.

At last, it has found peace.

And the darkness closes in...