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| 2009-12-13 22:03 |
| Memories |
| Public |
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In a shoebox, tucked inconspicuously in the corner of the spare bedroom, are the following photographs.
( Home was good. )
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| 2009-11-17 19:14 |
| (no subject) |
| Public |
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THIS IS WHAT THEY WANT YOU TO THINK
Imagine a mass panic in our city. Millions of civilians looting and raping and trampling each other because scientists have determined that the world will be ending in almost exactly three years. People would stop going to work. Water and power would go down in under a week.
Imagine losing your parents or your spouse or your siblings, or knowing that you WILL be losing them.
We are all going to die.
There is nothing anyone can do about it.
I'll be in my room.
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| 2009-11-10 11:19 |
| Dreams |
| Public |
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Kane didn't remember his childhood home being so small, but its size may have been warped through the filter of his memories and subconscious. He was standing on the wraparound porch, leaning against one of the wooden columns and staring into the street. He had always thought it was a cul de sac, but obviously his brain disagreed. In his mind's eye, the street in front of his house was long and winding, and it disappeared into the distance on both sides, like it went on into oblivion, but Kane couldn't.
There were soldiers marching in the streets, all of them equipped with huge guns that Kane couldn't identify. None of the soldiers had faces--they were crash test dummy smooth and white as porcelain. The army all headed in one direction, to his left, guns at the ready. Kane didn't know why he wasn't afraid--the prospect that these men all had significant firepower and no faces should have perturbed him just a little.
But they kept marching, and somewhere close, an air raid siren began to wail.
Fuck.
That meant the bombs were coming.
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