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What is wrong with dyeing my hair?

I was asking my mother about places I might get my hair trimmed tomorrow, since she had earlier said the old place had been replaced by a new one which gets everything wrong. Was specifying I wanted to get it done if possible at a local shopping centre as I intended to pick up some dye while I was out (because she was recommending someone who works from home).

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A week of writing

A very short week, true. Only two days in the last week was I writing, but those were two significant days. The first days on which I had produced any fiction since June. The first two consecutive days since April. The first work on that particular story since January.

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Arbitrary make updates evening

I have not been updating much recently. This seems odd to me, as I used to post as often as half a dozen times a day.

It might be tempting to blame this on Pokemon, which I have recently started playing again and the playing of which has been interfering with my ability to hold conversations with people. But that would only apply to the past couple of days at most and I am talking about something of months.

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For one of my classes I am tasked with the creation of a bibliography, an extensive document serving as a directory of books, serials and web resources pertaining to a particular subject. More complicated than something for which a simple catalogue search would suffice.

The library whose resources I have chosen to create the bibliography for (it has to be for and using the resources of a particular library) is the Seattle Public Library. The subject I have nominated to cite is resources for building writing and artistic skills.

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A minor epiphany

It turns out, when I am writing fiction longhand it is allowed for me to make edits. It is allowed to rewrite scenes and sections, to make notes and to change direction if the previous one is unworkable or judged inferior to the new.

Handwritten stories are allowed to be messy and do not have to be perfect, continuous narratives. Not even when they are first drafts.

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Light is of course a fluid. Drennets learn this at a very early age and frequently run outside as children to catch in cups the daily rain of sunlight, which they keep glowing by their bedside at night, or drink to feel its warmth flow through and fill their bodies right to the very tips of their fingers and hair, sometimes overindulging to the point of themselves beginning to glow and leak, or sometimes dip brush or finger in and use as paint, that special paint which is seen at night until it dries and fades or leaves radiant stains in many a youngster's reach.

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Story Time

Another month, another story posted and a new book created to hold it. Previous stories were posted under Fictions, intended for keeping minor one-off stories from cluttering the page. The new book is Numbered Tales.

As indicated on the page itself, these are a set of stories I devised back in 2002. Each story is assigned its own number and told mostly as a series of short tales. Only the first four listed for now, though; 05 is more of a hypertextual work and I am uncertain how to present it.

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Si, sono sempre in ritardo

Despite my stated intention to relocate my fiction catalogue to a denizen's entertainment, and to expand upon it when all old is done, I have been lax at actually going through with this project. Consequently, catching up, here are two stories at once:

These are added to the existing A Day in the Life. The stories so far posted are brief, unrelated vignettes. Later other kinds of writing will also occur.

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Something Conversational

[Conducted in relay, edited for coherence]

Trice: You're the anthropologist. Frustrated question: Why don't people realise other people are people too?

Tess: Because we live in a self-serving appeasist culture.

Ami: My sister is an anthropologist too :\

Trice: Some anthropologists are good and some are bad tho.

Trice: At the end of each millennium they battle it out for supremacy.


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