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[impure_tale]

My sweet fellow denizens, I have been entirely too moody of late -- sufficient enough to make an old pervert quite nostalgic. Enough so that recording my exploits in these new standard journals has become especially distasteful to me. There's a certain element of the art that is lost -- the succulent red of the ink, every sharp tip or gentle curve

Comments

[empirical_data]

[The android knows who he is, and knows many cultures that write on skin, and yet, somehow, that positronic brain-to-mouth filter ceases to function.] ...Skin... sir?

[impure_tale]

Oui.

[empirical_data]

...oui.

[It is the smallest, tiniest, most modesty protocolled "oui" in the world, that "oui".]

[impure_tale]

Curious, monsieur?

,,,have some semi-religious rambling about words. :D

[deepdowndark]

Words are words - the power and beauty is in them alone, not in the method in which they are written. For it is the word itself which is indestructible, it is the sound of the word which will resonate through a thousand years, it is where that word takes you and what is made from it, it is the definitive act of writing something down, giving it permanance and strength.

Whether a word is recorded in a Device, written on these bits of technomancy, or submitted to parchment, it is immortal. It is not how you write, but what is written, and that should never become distasteful; for to write is to create, to write is breed immortality. The medium is nothing but a go-between.

[impure_tale]

Clearly I am in the presence of a person who reads more frequently than he writes.

[deepdowndark]

I revere words and do not waste them where they are not needed.

[impure_tale]

Are you suggesting then that whatever words you would think to write would be a waste?

[inhumandog]

You want to talk to me after that speech?

But, I suppose that can be arranged. Stop by this afternoon.

[impure_tale]

Of course.

Spam

[inhumandog]

[And so Iago waited then, leaning back as he pondered his bookshelf. He had rearranged his room seven times already out of sheer boredom and now was thinking of taking out all of his books and going for an eighth.]

Spam

[impure_tale]

[Within minutes the Marquis arrived, the picture of his usual confidence but not quite the same man at all. He looked tired but not defeated. More like the sort that felt their body giving but refused to rest. Renate padded into the room behind him and barked happily at Iago. She shows none of the same signs of fraying as her Master, still impeccably well cared for.]

[i_hate_posses]

You ain't dead yet?

[impure_tale]

On the contrary, Monsieur Prince, I was dead before I ever came here. You know that.

[i_hate_posses]

You know what I mean.

[impure_tale]

I could ask you the same question. You've been quiet of late.

[buywithme]

[WHY MUST YOU MAKE HIM FEEL SO UNCOMFORTABLE WITH EVERY POST?]

You're feeling better then?

[impure_tale]

No. But I have decided not to care any longer.

[buywithme]

Hm. I've heard about a few people doing that recently.

Is there some kind of technique to it?

[impure_tale]

Yes. You stop caring.