Night 14,679. Talk. Good talk. Eastern melodies. Supplies and stamina run short. I am waiting on the dusk face of the planet (this, I realize, is a nonsensical statement, yet phenomenologically I believe it to be true at a subconscious level) for reinforcements to arrive. I am reminded of the time in a place called India that I never spent, and of the pilgrimage to a monument known as Yo-Yang Tower that I never made; this planet is dotted by spatial markers that have been in this way named.
I have sent messages ahead by various mediated forms, but I am unsure about the fabric’s ability to deliver them, or about whether there is anyone to deliver them to. Meanwhile, I wait, entranced by the influence of so-called “magickal” harmonics in regularized atmospheric disturbances. I never was a believer in resonance-habits, yet the cognitive import of these sequences of physicality is mathematically persuasive and undeniable.
At no time have I picked up the pen again; I remain afraid of what may issue from its movement. Gods willing, on the final day I’ll pick up pen and put it to paper. Until then, I await resupply. I presume and hope that our story will someday be told, we at the outer fringes of what has, in this epoch, been possible.
Steampunk baby steampunk baby irony’s retreat is cognitive gravy. Simple, simple, simple, complex.
I await 14,680 with all the faith I can muster.