waiting for the bus is never fun. it is either too hot, cold, muggy, windy, something. the shelter overhanging the seat usually made it worse. except today, since it was about to rain
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i'm not sure of it myself (maybe would have liked to revise some things), but i only have an hour to write and you guys get whatever comes out at the end, whether i like it or not!
i set out to write an actual blog entry, but i just couldn't find it in me this morning, so i wrote a story loosly based on what i was going to write instead.
if i do get around to writing that entry, i'll make sure i reference this story so you can tell me they have nothing to do with each other.
but, since i didn't have much in me, i just started writing with only a dim idea of where things were going. we'll call that "stephenson super stealth mode"!
he took his usual window seat near the back of the bus and regretted that his precious plants would soon drown in the heavy shower.
he regretted a lot of things, in fact, and most of them centered around the obsessive nature that made his life so unbelievably routine.
the plants again: images of rainwater and premium fertilizer soup flowing over the edges of their various pots. suffocated roots, damp and rotting in the hot sun.a tiny mew-- barely audible over the rain now beating against the bus-- quickly caught henry's attention; he hadn't even noticed the odd pair before
( ... )
i haven't done that in a long time. i'll take a stab when i've got a chance, but i would be great if some of my other readers tried their keyboard at it.
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i'm not sure of it myself (maybe would have liked to revise some things), but i only have an hour to write and you guys get whatever comes out at the end, whether i like it or not!
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When does Henry start cracking government codes and breaking into banks?
Nice bit btw. :)
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if i do get around to writing that entry, i'll make sure i reference this story so you can tell me they have nothing to do with each other.
but, since i didn't have much in me, i just started writing with only a dim idea of where things were going. we'll call that "stephenson super stealth mode"!
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(The comment has been removed)
i have still utterly failed to write even bad poetry. maybe i try that again sometime...
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he regretted a lot of things, in fact, and most of them centered around the obsessive nature that made his life so unbelievably routine.
the plants again: images of rainwater and premium fertilizer soup flowing over the edges of their various pots. suffocated roots, damp and rotting in the hot sun.a tiny mew-- barely audible over the rain now beating against the bus-- quickly caught henry's attention; he hadn't even noticed the odd pair before ( ... )
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i haven't done that in a long time. i'll take a stab when i've got a chance, but i would be great if some of my other readers tried their keyboard at it.
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