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the thirteenth paw of the cat
19 March 2015 @ 11:35 am
Well. Livejournal is working again. I suppose now I can continue with the depressing entries that, if I'm luky, no one will ever read.
the thirteenth paw of the cat
27 November 2008 @ 09:55 pm
well, today was thanksgiving. theres not a lot im really thankful for. pretty much my day was ruined before i even got out of bed and it didnt get much better as the day progressed. the food was good, but i didnt much feel like eating. I wish about two thirds of it had gone to a family that couldnt afford thanksgiving dinner so that they would have something else to be thankful for. I really wanted to appreciate it, but i couldnt. I didn't eat very much, and even now the thought of eating almost makes me sick. so it goes. I figure that, except for my birthday, this is the worst holiday i've had all year, and (also other than my birthday) the only holiday that will be even worse is christmas. if i could stop it from coming i would. I do not expect I'll even be getting a christmas card. all the family members who sent me cards are dead now, including my last remaining grandparent. moira doesn't care, and anybody else who might doesnt have my address. I swear I'll never try and talk someone out of killing themself again. There are a lot of things worse than death, and sometimes life itself is one of them and who the hell is anyone else to judge? by what right? anyway. yes, christmas will be bad. very bad.
I am compelled to go to sleep about now becuase i have to get up at 4 in the morning to get to work on time. personally, I would hazard the suggestion that it might be a better world for everyone if everybody who showed up at a store before 8 tomorrow morning were humanely shot.
I've been playing last remnant recently, at least when ive been up to it. game informer gave it relatively bad reviews, and it deserves much better. I had pre ordered it but i wont have the money to actually buy it until the employee appreciation sale thingy in a couple weeks. until then, (or actually until tomorrow) I merely checked it out. after i dispose of a few more elephant bird thingies ill be putting it up. i would have already, but im doing this and then im also trying to convince my stomach to accept a bowl of noodles. it's insisting on being sick.
there is a slight bright spot, however. I got a painting thing i'd been planning on doing for over a year now done. See, for karate, everyone breaks a board in the last class, whether theyre testing for a belt or not. I thought the broken board would be an appropriate medium for a symbolic painting or suchlike.
anyways, i used the paints moira had given me ages ago, though moira isn't around anymore to benefit from it. and anyway, i have somebody else in mind. something else, too, because it isn't just one painting. i used the entire board, so it's a single painting, but it splits in to two paintings. The idea is very similar to that of the two turtledoves, except in my usual fashion i gave it a slightly more... mystic purpose. Anyway, it remains to be seen whether i'll actually have someone to give half of it to or not. i suppose i may just frame the entire thing. I tried to go with an art style that anyone who played okami should hopefully recognize, and all in all, i'm very surprised at how well it turned out.
Also, i didnt use any paint brushes. There was only one suitable brush i could fine, and I wasn't sure what the base of these paints is. water i have plenty of, but it would take some time to dig out paint thinner. Theres some around here somewhere, but i couldnt tell you where. so, i used cotton balls, toothpicks, q-tips and a feather. like i said, it turned out rather well, though I don't have a picture of it available yet.
one of the nice things about last remnant is that once the commands are given, battles tend to resolve themselves automatically. basically, while im typing the game is playing itself.

anyways, i need to go to bed now. if i fall asleep at this very second, i may get five and a half hours.
the thirteenth paw of the cat
11 September 2008 @ 01:23 am
everything that i've made an effort at writing since... well, since the loss of moira has been tainted to a greater or lesser extent, and this is one of only three such written things, being the only story. Even after Shakena's review of it, i felt it could be salvaged, however, if i were to sit down with it long enough to get it signifigantly edited. that never happened, and i dont think it ever will. so it stands on its own i suppose. maybe if theres ever cause to put together a book again i'll resurrect it.


Picture a sphere around you. It’s big enough that on it’s smooth surface, somewhere, there’s a spot for every image you can imagine. In order to hold all of it, this sphere is big enough to be your whole world. In fact, this sphere IS your whole world in a sense.
Now, imagine further, a noise like ice under pressure and a crack. Faint lines spiderweb their way across the surface, then more and more. Pieces break loose and fall, but those pieces break up further, even as they fall so that what lands where the ground should is a fine silver dust. One of the images, floating somewhere above the immeasurable horizon retains its shape for longer than the others. It’s a face from a memory burned into the mind. In the end, though, it too rains silver dust, and is gone.
Nothing remains but a black gulf, hungry and empty, without star or constellation or firmament. Even the silver dust has vanished.

Such was the dream he dreamed every night, and with every experience the wind in the empty space blew colder, and the darkness felt hungrier and more demanding. Upon every iteration, the duration of the dream increased so that in his sleep he was suspended in the endless night for minutes, then hours, then ages it seemed before he awoke, screaming, in terror of a fear that could not be constrained within the vowels and consonants of his native tongue. Every day, the world around him seemed thinner, the people less real. In time he became afraid to venture far from his dwelling and it’s close surroundings for fear that the world would shatter, as it had in his dream, and he would be left floating in the void, waiting only for what he could fear but not describe to come. Or perhaps it would not come, and that might be worse.

But this is not the beginning of his story, nor it’s end. As with many troubles, trials and tribulations, it started with a girl. Who she was is not important, and neither is her name, for in the end he had forgotten even that, though he remembered that he bore towards her a never-ending deep red malice which was the only thing stronger than his fear of what he believed to lurk in the dark space behind reality. He could not remember her name, or where he met her, and had only vague recollections of what awful thing had happened between them, yet he hated her with all his soul (which he suspected he had lost somewhere along the twisting paths of life which had brought him here). He might have desired her life or her head, but he did not. He judged these to be merciful in comparison to what she should suffer to pay the long-forgotten debt and make things right again.
He had been left alone, after that, to his books and papers, to forced solitude and thought turned inwards on itself. The things he had once loved lost their appeal. Melodious musics lost their harmony and became discordant to his ears, jarring and offensive. Art reverted to collections of pigments and papers, ink and canvas. Marble was rock, and every joy a burden, and it was there that the dreams started.
They continued for days, then weeks. In time, the weeks stretched into years. He had marveled at the perfection of the great sphere which possessed qualities which only dream-objects can possess, such as being many different colors, all at the same time, or being both transparent and opaque. As the days wore on he made out the pictures and to his amazement he was able to recall an occurrence for each frozen image, each snapshot out of time. They had grown like mushrooms and populated the curve of the marvelous sphere which never grew too small to accommodate them all.
It was peaceful in his dream, and he had awoken contented. Night after night, he recalled the memories, happy and sad, but the sadness could not hurt him and was bourn with detachment of one analyzing abstract data, to a degree which is only possible when freed from the constraints of physical stresses and concerns.
Then the night had come when the sphere around had glowed with warm, white light, and the noises from outside had started. The next night, the sphere had shattered.
From that night on, the white light that had bathed his dream like liquid warmth was never there again. Just the sphere, crystalline and cold in it’s perfection and the images, sharp and clear innumerable, frozen in their laughter or tears, their monotony or stark significance; the sphere was a dwelling of shadows, and a cold wind whistled and moaned inside it. Then, it would crack as though it were glass, fall as if it were powder and leave him naked and alone in the midst of not-quite-empty infinity.
On the last full moon of the year, he didn’t wake up.
He screamed in terror of something he couldn’t decide for certain was actually a thing, but the airless wind had risen to drown his voice and the dream would not end. It eventually entered his understanding that he was being drawn in a certain direction. Faint variations of black coalesced around him and became a corridor lit with shadows, stretching forever in front and behind. Along this black way he was drawn, or perhaps he did not move and it moved around him until he came to a point where the corridor no longer existed and never had, and in that instant were nebulous suggestions of innumerable eyes and teeth and claws, indescribable appendages and amorphous shapes. The time they were there was too short to be measured and at the same time an eternity into which all the lives which have ever been lived could disappear without notice or comment, so great was the discrepancy of time. In that infinitely short moment, something happened which his consciousness would not register, and then he was somewhere again.
He stood at a crossroads, in a desert. The sands were silver, like the dust which the sphere had dissolved into, and above one of the gates which stood closed a little ways along each of the paths hung a sickle moon, cold and timeless. He walked forward and pushes on the gate, then grips it’s black metal bars and pulls. Nothing happens. He can see mountains and lights through it in the distance. He tries to leave the path, to walk around the gate which seems to be the only obstacle in his way, but he cannot make his foot step off the path, and frantic experiment confirms that the other paths are equally closed to him. His mind is working at full capacity, and he realizes that this should not be happening in a dream. Slowly, dreading each painful inch of the revelation, it occurs to him that it cannot be a dream after all. He must somehow escape, he knows. He still has duties to perform, though he can no longer remember what they are.
As the moments stretch into an all-too-un-dreamlike eternity he becomes well acquainted with the singular fact that the gates do not care what duties he believes himself to be bound by.

Somewhere, where normal reason and laws of causality still hold sway, there is a hospital room. There isn’t anything in it of special importance or value to distinguish it from hospital rooms the world over. A priest is just leaving, having been slightly put off by the pentagram worn on around the neck of the man lying in the bed. The priest only saw with his eyes and would not have been able to comprehend the respect in which he would have been held had the man been conscious.
A woman remains in the room, among the chirping and humming equipment. She hadn’t said anything while the priest was there and says nothing now. She could be called beautiful by conventional standards, but her brown eyes are cold and tinged more by annoyance than sadness. She is here because she, too, has a duty to perform. She brushes her dark red hair out of her eyes and reads the letter that she’s holding again. It isn’t very long, ending barely a third of the way down the page, and there’s a signature and a curious seal consisting of a circle and four equilateral triangles, which take up another two inches. The name is signed in gold.
When she finishes, she stares at it for a long moment, and then another. Eventually, with a sound that’s not quite a cough and not quite a sigh, she folds the letter up and replaces it in it’s envelope, which she slips into her pocket.
She walks over and studies his face, which she had never really done before. It seemed subtly changed in a worrying way that she could not quite put her finger on. After a while she bends down and quickly kisses him on his forehead, worrying for some curious reason about being seen in a compassionate act under these circumstances.
She pauses for a moment, then turns her back and leaves, as quickly as a spring unwinding, her red hair flying out behind her. She knows, as she hastens back to her own world of solids and spheres and definites, that she will never see him again.
He doesn’t respond. The nurse had quietly told her that he never would again.

Eric Atkinson, 20 July 2008
the thirteenth paw of the cat
29 August 2008 @ 01:17 am
I burned my hand pretty bad a few minutes ago. i was draining some pasta when some of the boiling water splashed onto my hand. fortuitously, it wasn't very much and it was on the top of my hand and not the bottom. Net result: painful, but not serious or debilitating. Anyways, I was thinking about something. No, not moira, at least not directly. It used to be i could discuss things like this with her. I never did find anyone else, really. Sara came close, but in certian areas, her mind was not open at all. It's been awhile since moira was interested in talking enough to have a deep, meaningful conversation. I can't remember the last time i had one myself. Yet another thing I can't replace, i suppose.
Anyways, I've been reading Lovecraft recently. His stories aren't very scary, even if they are the earliest consistant example of sci-fi horror i've read anything of. They are, however, oddly compelling in a way that isn't easy to classify. The more I think about it, the more it worries me. This time, though, i'm not concerned with the occultish element, per se. it's something else. This concerns his ideas (that is, the ones that appear in his stories) about the creation of man and the history of the planet before that time and in times shortly thereafter.
Zecharia Sitchin is a scholar who, in short, believes that this planet was visited by extra terrestrial beings who were responsible for such mysteries of antiquity as the great pyramids and some of the improbable ruins scattered around the middle east and south/central america. In my experience, he's distinguished from other auhors who make similar claims in that he focuses on ancient texts much more than (but not at the exclusion of) currently existing anomalies. Whether one believes such an extreme theory or not is up to him or her, of course, but I would be very surprised, personally, if sitchin is completely wrong. By the same token, it isn't likely that he's completely right either. Be that as it may, the matter of concern and focus here is that his theories are more or less the same that Lovecraft used, if one takes the time to look.

If one were to take Lovecraft's stories seriously (which we are not, I assume, meant to do), then we can do a little comparison.
Taking Lovecraft's stories literally, this planet was visited before man was around by monstrous beings from distant stars for various purposes, including the mining of certian rare metals. According to Sitchin, our planet was visited by a spacefaring civilization in search of a specific rare metal, gold.

According to Lovecraft, though these alien beings came from distant stars, at least some of them used for a base of operations a planet called Yuggoth, which lovecraft claimed lay beyond the orbit of Neptune which I have heard connected with the planet Pluto (yes, I still consider it a planet) though I am not certian if that is correct. According to Sitchin, his travelers came from a planet whose orbit lies beyond pluto, such that it only approaches the rest of the solar system every some-odd-thousand years or so.

Now on to the creation of man. According to Lovecraft (and because there may possibly be inconsistancies between what i have read and stories i have not, I will cite 'at the mountains of madness') man, and all other living things on this planet, were created by the Great Old Ones, one of the groups of alien creatures which came from distant stars, though genetic manipulation as... sort of a hobby, the story makes it seem; to be slaves, and for sport. They also created for themselves monstrous servants called Shuggoths, which later became their downfall when they broke free from the mental control they were under.
According to Sitchin, the Annunaki, for so he calls them, created man, also through genetic manipulation, by combining their own DNA with that of pre-existing primates. They did this because their own workers were complaining so about the manual labor involved in mining the afore-mentioned gold. The Annunaki created no Shuggoths, at least none that sitchin mentions, but they did create many fabulous monsters, such as the bull of heaven mentioned in the epic of gilgamesh.

Later on, both Lovecraft's and Sitchin's alien visitors end up posing or being worshipped as gods and demons, and different groups of beings spent time warring with each other, eventually enlisting men to serve their purposes. There are also eerie similarities between the mention and usage of certian stones are crystals

Whether or not sitchin is right, the ancient gods seem to have retired into the woodwork, and are no more seen to take physical action in the world. Likewise, Lovecraft's elder gods and great old ones and whatevers are not to be found in the world of men, having retired to dark places or cities beneath the sea (where they are said to lie in what we would call suspended animation, waiting for the stars to be right again, though some of them may sometimes be summoned under certian conditions. Here again, it is worth noting that Sitchin's Annunaki are also constrained by a heavenly clock: the orbit of their planet which is only close enough for travel between there and here at certian times.
When the stars are right...
According to Lovecraft, they are worshipped still by secret cults in lonely places. Sitchin, on the other hand, makes no claims to this effect, but how many of us have prayed to God? how many of us attend church or mass?

There are more similarites that what I have discussed but many are subtle, such as a tentative occult connect with ancient egypt in some of Lovecraft's stories. Those, however, I'd have to spend some time with the books thinking and I dont care to now. I wish i could still have moira's thoughts on this sort of thing, but like i said, we havent had a conversation like that in a very long time. I cant say how much i miss it. In any case, I've thought about this before, and didnt get around to writing it down. I'd talked to moira, if you want to call it 'talked' several days ago. It was one of the few bright spots ive had recently, and it was cause for hope. there's been little enough of that goin' around. I havent had any contact with her since then, but it's probably not a good idea to push things, and in some cases that's probably a lesson i need to learn.
Disgaea 3 came out, and, well, I've had some time with it and I'm just not excited about it. It's got everything it should, but it isnt quite as fun as it should be. Seems to put me to sleep, though, which is a mixed blessing. Spanish class started, and it seems to be more or less going well. I know the teacher, or rather I've had his class before, and I'll have to work but it'll be alright. I'm not sure i like my history teacher, but erok claims his class is a good one. I dont have my book yet, and i'll have to pay for it myself becuase i'm not on speaking terms with my dad after he threw me out. my mother overruled him, which may not have actually been the best thing as strange as that sounds. It's a long story and I'm too tired to go into that. I believe i would have called moira, but it was too early, she'd be at work, and anyway she wouldnt have answered. its just as well. i got through it, but things were said and i cried a small bit and i'm pretty much staying upstairs when im not up the road. i think i would leave, if i thought i had anywhere to go. dont have anywhere else i can spend the night, not anymore, and i wouldnt get all that far dragging a tent around. but its over and done with so theres not much point in dwelling on that overmuch. I'm thinking, though, maybe if things get better ill have to see what my writing ability does. for all i know, it might come back somewhat. and moira actually called me on her own, which seems to be a sign that things are finally taking a turn for the better. fingers crossed, ect. well, its late, im tired, and ive had a long day. I've got a bit of work to do tomorrow, too, which should keep me busy. I should probably play disgaea some too, if i feel like it.
the thirteenth paw of the cat
19 July 2008 @ 11:45 pm
it is with no small sense of irony that i say what i shall this night. Indeed, the simplest, most random occurances have taken upon themselves the darkest irony imaginable, and at this my whole world is a vault of shadows and horrors. so i say that there are much worse things than irony and will not speak of specifics in that matter. On a whim, last week sometime, I bought the collector's edition of metal gear solid 4 that Ellis had been holding and decided to put back. It was difficult for me to justify the expenditure, but it was the last collector's edition and had the money, and the reviews id seen were good. I could now write my own review, having beaten it, but i won't. I will say, instead, that the game is a work of genius and nothing less. Before I wrote this I sat down and considered those words. How many games can i say that about? I would easily call it epic, so i started there. Epic. FF3 (or 6, if you missed it on the SNES) and FF8. Xenosaga 3 and Valkyrie Profile 2. Eternal Darkness, the first Halo and lets say Mass Effect and maybe Bioshock as well. That's not many, really, out of all that i have, so maybe I missed one or two. But they don't come close. I don't know where to move on from epic, so i'll leave it at that. Epic. I am amazed to no end, especially for a game of that type. Well, I said no review, and there isn't. But there is a deep thread of sadness wound throughout it. On the whole, it's something I would talk to Moira about, but moira no longer has ears to hear even if she would listen. It's especially tragic, the reality not the game, that I should stumble upon it now and now when things are well and i could appreciate it as it should be appreciated. So i will say again that it is a work of genius, and whoever will listen might hear after i am gone. It's a small thing, and has no real importance, and that gives it some manner of hopeless innocense and purity, and so precious little of that remains anywhere that i can see.

so i sit here, and sweat and listen to 'the best is yet to come' which was apparently the ending theme from the first metal gear solid and appears again in this game, which i have not played today and probably will not. That title, too, is ironic. Windows media player has it looped so it plays over and over again and i can't count how many times it has played. It's not in english, but like the game it reappears in, it's melody is sad and haunting, so that knowing the meaning of the words could only detract from it's beauty. Once again, I doubt Moira would appreciate it or it's tragic purity. That may well be my epitaph, but so be it if it is to be. I can no more halt things than extinguish the sun. Even so, though; The game is a work of genius which i no more expected than i expect that any game cound impress me more and in the same way.
the thirteenth paw of the cat
01 July 2008 @ 09:54 am
sometimes, when i go look at my game collection, which now has ninja gaiden 2, ratchet and clank, rogue galaxy, ffXI, and a few others that aren't worth mentioning, i just start crying, or at least my eyes do. I guess i really should be, because once upon a time, video games were my escape when nothing else but reading would work. Now, playing video games feels like a drain on my very soul that gets worse the longer i play. this doesn't seem to apply to disgaea, maybe because i know that moira didn't have the taste to like disgaea and made fun of it the only time she was ever exposed to it. but then again, everythings like that. theres no joy in anything, only certian amounts of escape, and none of those are very great. everything that was important or that mattered to me is either gone or twisted. i have no friends, and no one to talk to. Well, who needs friends, really. there was no one i had that mattered more than moira, and if she can throw me away for a game after 14 years, and after all that weve been through, and do it on my birthday, then what point is there in trusting anyone? and i'm human too, does that mean I'm not any better than that? am i, or would i be guilty of the same loathsome behavior? probably yes. i want no part of it. i wont set myself up for that again and i wont be guilty of that myeslf. There can be no greater crime that isn't actually illegal. I would say, as a matter of sentiment, that she should die for it, but then she wouldnt suffer the way she's made me suffer. OF course, if she lives long enough to grow a conscience, then that will hopefully take care of itself, but there's little chance of me lasting that long. One thing that is certian though is that while moira herself could have prevented everything that happened at every step along the way, and she could have helped me fix things if only she cared afterwards, its too late now. It's too late for everything. Sooner or later, I'll have to leave because the very thing i was so desperate to stop is starting to happen. I'm becoming something else, and while i can see it happen theres enough of the old me left for now that i can project what will happen and when it does i need to be far away from here and especially from any weapons or transportation. That much at least I know how to handle and I'll take care of it. I probably shouldnt give up on moira, either, lest i be as low as she is. don't i have obligations and promises to keep? I can't remember. But moira's in trouble too, and everyone in a position to help her is afraid to, especially after what happened to me. Well i dont know that last part, but i assume. Jessica was afraid to try and help her i know, and i know that what happened to me was almost the same as what she was afraid would happen to her if she tried to intervene, which didn't stop her from agreeing with me that something needed to be done and that my plan was the best one, at least at that time. What she thinks now, who knows. I don't. But I do know that she's not my friend, whatever she would protest becuase she knew i was right and didnt take up for me or defend me. (maybe she did, I wouldnt have any way of knowing. But i wouldnt bet anything that mattered (if anything still did) on it)
And that about covers everything. What gifts i had are gone or sealed away from me, i have no friends left, no one that cares about me, moira twisted my comforts into torments and i gained some unwelcome insight into the nature of reality. There isn't anything for me here, or anywhere else. I invite fortune to prove me wrong, but if i expected that.. well, i dont. what of it matters, really? i'm dead either way, whether it's fast or slow and since moira WOULDNT help me, knowing she was the only one who could, it hardly matters why things came to this. The why part only matters when its time for revenge or to fix things. The revenge is in the hands of whatever God of justice may be. as for fixing things, well, moira made sure that couldnt happen. So it goes. maybe i've accomplished everything i needed to in this... existence. i wouldn't be able to say.

its really too bad i am what i am. if i was more like other people, id be ashamed of myself but maybe i couldn be hurt so much.

and to ann, if you check my journal anymore, i'm really not on all that much and yes, things are not going very well. i hope your new job's working out better for you than the last one
the thirteenth paw of the cat
07 May 2008 @ 07:11 pm
things got much worse since i did the last entry, but i believe that they may be stabilized for now thanks to some insights i picked up this morning. my chest is hurting again, though. if i didnt have other, more important things then id be thinking heart attack. im not, though, for several reasons, most notably that it seems to be tied to my breathing which suggests something with one of my lung muscles. it could be a symptom of the medication, and there's enough of them going around, but i dont think so becuase this happened before, and it may be connected with stress. moira's certianly put me through enough now and then, and there are other considerations as well.
anyway, the medication made it so it was as difficult to breathe as if i had just been running, but it neve hurt. there are also some pains in my lower left side, but they seem to be intermittent. but it is odd because its right where my heart should be.
anyway, itll get better, it always has in the past. besides, i'm too young for heart problems. so im not worried, but i wonder what it is and wish it would go away.

I found that if i can lay around and watch stuff then ill mostly be alright as long as i do it until i get too tired to stay awake, which is in turn annoying because i miss stuff. oh well. the legend of black kat was decent too, but thats ps2. pirate game, not too bad but dated. and cheap, too, which is most important. so im just sitting here. and its ok really as long as i dont breathe deeply, which may be better. I've kind of run out of stuff to say.
the thirteenth paw of the cat
25 April 2008 @ 07:35 pm
"...and for showing me again and again that no matter how many mistakes we've made, the ending has not yet been written."
-from Myst IV

I dont really know what to say. I've nothing to report or declare. Theres been little opportunity for solitude here and id even considered going back there but since that would be a one way trip, i didnt consider it for long.
I did a little catching up in geography today and helped my dad some. and that was my day, more or less.
I need to talk, I think. that therapy session wednesday would have been an opportunity for that, but i discovered when i was there i had nothing to say. I'm about the same, really. And right here. Theres a lot to be said, but nothing occurs.
I guess I'll go back to doing... well, whatever. i've got more geography to do, but i have until the fifth.
the thirteenth paw of the cat
03 April 2008 @ 12:15 pm
i was going to talk to someone. after today, rght now, i dont see any way i can
the thirteenth paw of the cat
30 March 2008 @ 10:17 pm
i have to report a singular occurance. if the creature is real then i will now have to summon it alone. tonya offered me help, but not knowledge, and after i sent her that email telling her to either leave me alone about moira or leave, i do not expect that i can count on her help. since i will not be able, apparently, to summon it by ritual, i decided to summon it in another way. i retired to my video game room, which doubles as my meditation space, in order to meditate and try to summon it without the aid of ritual. after relaxing myself and laying there for a time, i became aware of voices. what there origin is i do not know. what it sounded like was dozens of voices babbling at once. i found that if i concentrated, i could make out isolated phrases, which would make no sense. i do not know where they came from, but i listened without trying to control them. after a few minutes of this, these voices which were not voices, or at least did not arrive in my head via my ears, i addressed the voices with my thoughts and addressed the cacophany and told it to bring me the creature or bring the creature to me or something like that. no sooner than i had done so than three of the voices answered me, in almost a comical fashion. each voice was slightly higher pitched than the one that preceeded it, and i cannot recall what the first voies said. the second one said "we can". the third one said "we will". At this point, I became aware of a deep buzzing sound. it took a few moments to sink in, but when it occured to me what it must be it brought me back to full consciousness immediately and i jumped out of the chair and got behind it very quickly indeed. IT was a deep buzzing sound, and the only thing i've heard that sounds remotely like it are those huge japanese hornets. I waited, ready to run at the slightest sign of the insect, in a quite paranoid manner, but the buzzing which had stopped the moment i jumped up did not start again and though i looked i saw no sign of anything making it. nothing flying, buzzing or crawling.

Under the circumstances, im not certian it was an insect at all. tomorrow I will devote some time to discovering whether it was or not. but even if i do find a hornet, which would not be exactly unreasonable, there are always some that get in each year, it's a little too coincidental. It's also worrying taht those voices answered me. I do know they were not voices that i created, at least not intentionally. And when i first noticed them it was like noticing something that was there all along that youd just never seen. but the memory of the whole thing acts like a dream. i can tell you what happened but i cant remember the details. until the voices answered me, it was just like being in a large crowded room overhearing dozens of overlapping conversations at once. umm... anyway. faded. like a dream, other than the 'we can, we will'.
thus, I have recorded this as it happened, the time being approximately 10:30 pm.