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Sentence First, Then Verdict
Don't be late!
Oct. 12th, 2006 @ 06:55 am Oh my god, holy crap, double-u tee eff.
Alice Was Feeling Quite: curiouscurious
I'm twenty-six years old. WTF.

... How did this happen?

And for the smartasses out there attempting explanation through any variant of the following words: 'well, you see, a long time ago in a land far away, your parents xxxxxxx and nine months later, tada! You.' I'm onto you!

So ... yeah. 26. What the fuck? Where are my twenties going? Has anyone seen? They seem to be disappearing more rapidly than I ever expected. Don't get me wrong; I'm all about being alive here on this spinning ball. But goddamn, four from thirty?

That's Logic!
Oct. 5th, 2006 @ 11:07 am Highly amused.
Alice Was Feeling Quite: amusedamused

Who's Your Inner Bitch?

Miss Parker - from The Pretender
Take this quiz!

Quizilla |

| Make A Quiz | More Quizzes | Grab Code

Okay, so who's surprised? Come on now, 'fess up. Anyone? ... Anyone?

Yeah; didn't think so. -laugh-

Sort of an odd thing to do a character quiz and then give detail regarding the actor or actress that portrayed / portrays them, though. But the graphic was nifty.

That was a fun show.

That's Logic!
Sep. 29th, 2006 @ 09:29 am Hallowe'en Costume Epiphany!

Thank you glorious jacket-weather in late September! And to think, I might not have thought of this.
Huzzah! And it will be so easy. I already have nearly if not everything.

Much more detail to come.
That's Logic!
Sep. 27th, 2006 @ 02:12 pm Oh, the sense that makes.
Alice Was Feeling Quite: gigglygiggly

Looking up random X-Files trivia I stumbled upon this:

Callum Keith Rennie rejected the part of Alex Krycek, and thus it went to Nicholas Lea who did a, dare I say, killer job.

Some of you are already laughing yourselves silly. But for those that aren't, don't feel too bad for Rennie's careless judgment.

He's done quite well as Leoben on Battlestar Galactica, I'd say. ;)

That's Logic!
Sep. 22nd, 2006 @ 09:17 am Remembering The Real Jason: The one that wasn't.
Alice Was Feeling Quite: nostalgicnostalgic
Wafting Through: "Wicked Game" by Heather Nova (cover)

I have a fondness for my exes. And then there are the not-quite exes. The relationships that never officially were. The ambiguously platonics that drove me to the point of madness to which I finally had to slam on the brakes -- or go insane.

Of them, I remember Jason the most. The closest non-relationship I've ever had, save for a few rare, disturbing exceptions. I find it beyond ironic synchronicity that this Aquarian Jason from my past turns up mere hours from this writer trying to make sense of how to have her roleplaying character deal with a fictional one. Jason D. Aquarius, and apparently a governmental liaison. I'm proud of him. Neither of us knew if we'd ever really make it to the Bureau, but we always talked about it -- going to Quantico and the Academy, graduating, and working the Investigative Support Unit. That was the dream, and he was good. Damn, he was good.

Okay, memory lane time. (Although if Stevie happens upon this, I apologise for the apparently non-stop memory lane wandering. I guess I'm in a mood.)

It was the summer of 1998, and TJ and I'd just decided the distance was too much to take and officially ended it. I had a case that afternoon. The docket had come in the mail the night prior and I knew that I was facing off against Thomas on an assault case. I'd already spoken to my defendant the night before and was convinced she was innocent and had been provoked into the situation -- not to mention suffering worse wounds than the plaintiff, though I wouldn't know until that day. I also noticed that I was getting a new co-counsel; a guy named Jason whom I didn't know from Adam, as they say.

I met him briefly before we were to do the opening arguments and explained the situation to him, surprised that he'd already spoken to her himself and that she was twice as confident and grateful knowing we were both informed. We put together a gameplan and decided on a course of action. Being that it was his first case and he wasn't allowed to present just yet, I still pooled our ideas together taking his cues, reading his notes and presenting the arguments we'd decided upon.

We won.

Thomas had resorted to unfair extrapolation, painting her in a negative light, setting us way back, but putting our heads together, I requested that he give the closing argument, and it cinched it. I was elated. Sure, I remembered that my eight month whirlwind long-distance romance that begun in the nation's capital with a Californian guy had just ended. But it just didn't seem to matter all that much right then.

He was quirky and intelligent, sly but genuine. According to the presiding judge we had a good chemistry and played well off of each other, so they kept us together, taking turns on who would present and who would support. It was a fairly even blend. That night though, Thomas was planning on us doing our usual thing after court, going out to dinner and discussing the night's events, but I was still way too pissed with his behaviour. I said that I'd still go, but it was rude not to invite Jason, too. Begrudgingly, he agreed. Damn, was that a dinner to remember.

I don't even remember how the rest of the summer happened. We had court Mondays, we'd go to lunch sometimes, he was a member of a cotillion to which I ended up going with him once (having learned tango from my ex-boyfriend) and he'd gone to dinner with me and my parents once, too. We'd hang out in a medium sized group fairly often as well.

It's so foggy, but I remember when things began to get hopelessly ambiguous; when they started changing. It was dinner after court and I think I was starting to feel a bit jealous of another one of the attorneys who paid him a lot of attention. (One that, I might add, I'd slaughtered at court a few times -- and she was good, too. I'll admit that now that I'm older and hopefully more mature, heh.) We were driving to the house, he was going to drop me off, and I got so quiet. He'd asked about it, and I'd somewhat admitted that I'd felt invisible. That he'd barely paid any attention to me. He was so concerned, apologetic for his behaviour. What I do remember perfectly was that when I was looking out of the window he had taken my hand in his, saying he was so stupid, and I meant a lot to him and he didn't want me to think otherwise. Then it was late, and unlike we usually did, he couldn't come up for a few hours of conversation and to prepare strategy for the next week, so he left and I wrote pretty feverishly in my journal, feeling like my luck was finally changing.

Unfortunately, it all happened pretty fast from there. He had gotten more physical, for one; when he assisted me with the buckle on my heel before dinner, he lingered a bit too long than he would have otherwise. We'd talk for hours, celebrate our wins and be supportive through our losses (which were, luckily, few.) He was the first Schyler to my Attley. But the night of the presumed innocent pillow fight, when he grabbed me and we looked just long enough to be too long at each other so close, I had to know. What was really going on. Were we ... or weren't we?

He was surprised. It was as if it hadn't registered. This was just ... how we were, why did it have to go anywhere or do anything? With his Aquarian male logic. We were 'affectionate' friends. If it went further than that, well ... he didn't want it to. He said I meant too much to him for it to be like that; he wouldn't do that to me. Ruin what we have; the simplicity of the ambiguously platonic. The idyllic nature of it all. He didn't want it to be complicated and sullied by an actual physical relationship.

Right. That really threw me for a loop as I'd thought I had him completely figured out -- finally. No such luck. It devolved from there, and quickly. We began our first argument and finally, when there was nothing more to say, he left. He embraced me and left with the words: "I'm not walking away from this; if anyone is going to end it, it's going to have to be you."

So, I wondered. Could I take that? How long could I go on, seeing him in court every week, being in the same social group before I cracked? I made a decision the next morning as we were planning to see each other again soon. It didn't work out the following day, but it did the day after. He was the same. I wasn't.

He said I'd put my emotions in a box and denied everything that I was feeling, saying that I was okay, I'd be okay, everything would be fine I just needed time to think and regroup. (Sound familiar, Lachesis? The subconscious is a bitch, let me tell you.) I faked myself out into believing I really was, though I was dizzy and felt disconnected from everything around me, and for some reason ... he hated me for it. In that I was denying myself, I was denying him, too. And he was so hurt and so upset he didn't know what to do but yell and start an argument. I remained cool, I remained detached. He was wildly gesticulating at the top of his lungs. "If you were anyone else I would have walked out that door long before now," he'd said. In my depressed disconnect I told him he should. What was stopping him? He asked if I really wanted that. I said that honestly, I didn't know what else to do.

He just looked at me for a long time, closed his eyes, balled up his fists ... and left.

I've never seen him again. He left the organisation; I did only a short time thereafter. It had been a year. We spoke once briefly online in college. It had to have been four years, and he was still very bitter about it. Remembered it like it was yesterday. Strangely enough, I didn't. And I haven't. For years.

So yeah. Jason. And the funny thing is, it never even occurred to me when I saw the character application. It was just a name of a character for a game I was running. In fact, it only clicked last night when I tried to figure out what on earth to do with a piece of developing plot -- and it was all feeling very deja-vu. And then it hit me: I'll have Cas do with this Jason what I did with ... mine.

So. Truth is sometimes stranger than fiction. And curious. Very, very curious.

Leaving Memory Lane and returning to Reality now. I sent a message to him; just asking how he's been, congratulating him on his career and wishing him luck. Sometimes that's all you can do.

In better news, Jess and I are meeting with friends for dinner again tonight, and I'm going to be bringing the script along so that my Fauste/Lockwood/Black possibility can take a look. I'm excited! Wish me luck.

That's Logic!
Sep. 12th, 2006 @ 11:39 am What's that there musical box, young whippersnapper?

Wow ... I must really be showing my age when I reference a fold-up travel PDA-clock thingamajigger as a "little musical box" simply because at the time of my statement, it was playing an elaborate tune as its alarm.

Little musical box. Riiiiight. I was so startled by my comment that I added, " ... I was trying to quiet the little man inside. Who was singing in a very distracting loud voice." -cough- Yeeeeeah.

The owner of said gizmo, an eleven year old girl, mind you, with a passion for gadgetry (like myself, though after that comment, you'd wonder) just stared at me.

"It's a combination alarm-clock-calculator-calendar-radio."

... Why, of course it is.

Aye, yaye, yaye.

Did I mention it was smaller than my cell phone?

That's Logic!
Sep. 5th, 2006 @ 11:50 am JK Rowling reaches new levels: Spam.
Alice Was Feeling Quite: annoyedannoyed

First off, poor Rowling. Nobody ever wants their work to be connected to spam. But sure enough, there it is.

"you made me do that!" said ron angrily, sucking his cut thumb. "you wait,
when i'm seventeen -" . fenrir greyback grinned, showing pointed teeth.
blood trickled down his chin and he licked his lips slowly, obscenely. m5

I saw that in the general mailbox at work today, noticing that the subject line had a "$" in place of an "S". Spam dead giveaway. To amuse myself, I often read the little excerpts and (often incoherent) paragraphs they tack onto the end so that its ignored by most spam filtres. But when I saw "Ron" I thought, eh? Then I saw Fenrir, and knew it.

Holy crap. It's Half-blood Prince. What the bloody hell, man?

Am I the only one surprised and angered by this? They've been using incoherent crap for years, and it's worked. Why use legitimate, best-selling copyrighted works. Doesn't this not sound like a bad lawsuit waiting to happen?

In other news. Gaspard Ulliel-as-young-Lecter is still creeping me out in that giggly sexy-boy kind of way. I should be disturbed ... and yet I'm not. Hmmm.

That's Logic!
Sep. 3rd, 2006 @ 09:42 am Ladies and gents, the boy Lecter.
Alice Was Feeling Quite: cheerfulcheerful

2007, it says, just shy of Harris' upcoming addition to the trilogy: Young Lecter: Behind The Mask. If he's going to try to win me over with this one, he's wasting his time. I've been there since Silence. (And no, I'm not particularly sane. Thanks for inquiring.) -eyebrow waggle-

And this helps. At first, I was extremely skeptical. How ... I mean ... not Hopkins sure, but ... how. HOW do you find an actor, mind you, to play THE Dr. Hannibal Lecter in his youth?

Gaspard Ulliel apparently.


Not to be, oh, superficial or anything, but I'll be there opening day. (After all, they cast one of my favourites as Graham back in Red Dragon. The franchise seems to be doing all right.)

But ... those eyes. That devious grin. I'm losing my skepticism. Let's face it; the kid's got it. Mm. See you in the theatre as one of my favourite characters of all time, Gaspard. Don't disappoint. (Though Harris is writing, so I'm not too worried there.)

That's Logic!
Aug. 31st, 2006 @ 06:25 pm ... or wife?
Alice Was Feeling Quite: contentcontent

Ah, those fun little quizzes. Sometimes they catch my eye.

You Are A Woman!

Congratulations, you've made it to adulthood.
You're emotionally mature, responsible, and unlikely to act out.
You accept that life is hard - and do your best to keep things upbeat.
This makes you the perfect girlfriend... or even wife!

But this one ... those last little words which usually make me gasp for air, and think, oh, no, no, no ... sort of have me thinking ... Yes. Okay. Yes.

I'd made thirty, the big 3-0 my choice for a marriageable age simply because it wasn't now, or really near to now. I always figured thirty would give me long enough to really get my life in order and head in check.

Now, the more I think of it ... thirty. Yeah. I like thirty. The concept of being married doesn't truly frighten me as it used to. See? There, I said it. Being married. Doesn't frighten me. As it used to.

I'd say this is progress.

That's Logic!
Aug. 29th, 2006 @ 12:11 am Go ask Alice But Not Really
Alice Was Feeling Quite: pensivepensive

I fell asleep. Head hit the pillow, out like a light.

Then ... I woke up. Sort of.

I was at my grandparents' old mansion, the one which I'd wandered relentlessly as a child, a veritable land of antiques, mirrors, paintings, marble and luxury. The gardens no different.

I suppose it's no surprise that's where I ended up. Again, sort of.

I was lying on the floor in the middle of what used to be my mother's room, with two twin beds, one on each side, where she and my aunt had grown up. My cousins and I had stayed there ourselves many times, even though we were convinced, in our childhood, that the place was overrun by shadowy monsters just waiting in the wings. As I got older, the creepiness somehow never went away.

I picked myself up off of the floor and noticed the clocks in the room were all set to just a minute to my birthtime, 4:31 AM. In a moment, their alarms all went off. It was deafening, and the only place that seemed to be quiet was the closet. The damned closet of so many awful memories that I hated. But then I heard his voice. My older cousin's, who used to babysit his younger brother and myself countless times growing up.

He was shouting and coming up the stairs, maybe because of the noise.

My hands over my ears, no other choice. The closet it was.

Once inside, it was completely dark. Did I mention there's no light? All of the lights are off. It's the darkness one experiences not during a blackout, but rather a regular night when all the usual fixtures have been turned down or off completely. Just enough to let your eyes adjust, but not see much. But the closet was just dark. Flat dark.

And now he was banging on it. Shit.

"Look down." Said the usual disembodied voice in these types of bizarre experiences. (Probably with drugs, I'd imagine. I wouldn't know. Not my thing.)

But, fair is fair, so I replied in a whisper. "Down where?"

"Take a step forward. Concentrate. And go down."

"I don't like where this is going."

If I'd ever had the unfortunate experience of being suffocated by a boa constrictor, that's a bit what it was like. And fortunately, only for about fifteen seconds. I could hold my breath, and apparently I needed to. There was no air.

As the hole in the floor either rose to take me in, or I slowly slipped into it like quicksand, it grew infinitely darker and I couldn't breathe. But once I was out, I hit the ground. Hard. Asphalt. And above me ... stars.

People were walking, so after staring in awe at stars so beautiful and bright, I got up. "We've got to hurry," said one of them. "Before the portal closes."

He then took my hand and kept at his fast walk. I had no choice but to jog with him. "Portal, okay ... seeing as I just came through the floor, I'm going to assume that's right."

"Where are you from?" He asked, suddenly taking note of me, and seeming to indicate a case of mistaken identity.

"Uhm ... well, my grandparents' mansion. Sort of. It's been gone, torn-down, and rebuilt into something else entirely since '98. So ... the memory of my grandparents' mansion. Anyhow, I came home from work sick -- exhaustion, working too hard, too many hours, emotional stress, blah, blah, blah -- and laid down. Hit the pillow, out like a light. NEVER happens, unless I'm supposed to dream something important. Oh, yeah ... so, anyway, I'm dreaming, and I end up at my grandparents'. But then my bastard cousin starts banging on the door when all of the alarm clocks are going off at my birthtime, and I hide in the closet. But there's a hole in the floor. I fall in. Now I'm here. I dunno; call me Alice. But not really."

He just nods. "Cool. Okay, well, I'll be your guide here, Alice But Not Really."

I laugh. "Cute. So ..." I look at the sky. "Where're we going? Somewhere I've been, somewhere I haven't been."

"Depends where you're going." And he winks.

I laugh again. "Hey, nice one. I think I'm gonna like you, Your Guide Here."

We keep walking. There are pipes everywhere, it's black as night, but the stars are incredible. I hear what sounds like a sea, but taste no salt in the air. It's very urban, very strange and Apocalypse Soon, but also very deserted.

"Are we in the middle of a war?" I ask, suddenly feeling like I really don't want to be here.

"Sort of," he responds. "You'll see."

I continue on with him meeting up with the others. They're talking, but I can't hear what they're saying. "You're not supposed to." He remarks. "You pay attention to everything all of the time. Every date, every detail. Some insight into what you're being told. You're getting too much. It's overwhelming you. Here, you'll only get what matters. The rest you'll ignore or won't hear or see at all."

I nodded, getting a feel for it. "So ... that blankness over there ... ?"

"Not important. Not to you," he clarified.


And we kept going, finally coming to what looked like a series of stone buildings with bizarre markings. "We're looking for the portal," he reminded.

"But nobody knows where it is?"

"We will when we find it."


There was a lot of walking. I don't remember a lot of it. As my guide would have said, that's because it wasn't important. Or, not to me, at least. So I'm okay with that.

"August 1, 1979. That's what we want," said a random guy looking up at a particularly menacing, but very sci-fi looking stone door with strange colourful shapes cut into it.

"Well, January 1, actually," my guide told him.

"They're seven months off," I remarked.

"The same here. We're seven months off." And then he shrugged. This was apparently normal, so I tried not to wrack my brain about it too much and shrugged it off, too. He smiled. "You're learning."

I took it as a compliment and grinned confidently. "I'm a fast learner. So, 1979 ... I wasn't born yet."

"Doesn't matter. We want the January 1, 1979 portal. But it won't take us to 1979." As I tried to think about it he said, "Again, it's just not important."

But then that struck me as horrific. "If it's not important, I won't see it."

"No, it's important ... just ... not ... well, you'll see. The fact that it's a 1979 portal and it takes you to 2006 is not important."

"1979 and 2006 are the same here?"

"Maybe." He didn't know.

I stood looking at the stars for a minute, surveying my surroundings. It was desolate, urban, and a bit creepy. The pipes were reminiscent of that god awful early 1990's "Super Mario Brothers" movie with Hoskins and Leguizamo. Other than that, I liked it. Pipes. Why pipes? Because we were getting the sink repaired?

My thoughts were broken. "Got it."

"Okay, we've got to hurry," my guide says, suddenly becoming more serious.

But then I catch something out of the corner of my eye.

"What's this?" I go to it, like a moth to a flame. It's a long, stone plaque carved into the asphalt. Like a grave, except it isn't. It's asphalt, and this is not a morgue. It's a plaque. Just a plaque. "Myra ... " And what looks to all the world like an S, H, and then it gets fuzzy. O, V, I ... C? K? Damn it. This is important. I start saying it aloud. 1979. Myrashovik. Who was this? Was this me? Myra Shovic? Myra Shavik? Is it an anagram?

"We're going to lose it!" One of them shouts.

"Come on!" He shouts at me.

"But I -- "

"There isn't time!"

"But I've almost got it!" I'm insistent on unfurling this mystery before I go.

"I don't care!" He shouts. And for a moment, his face changes shape, becoming a myriad of people from my past, who've tried to help me, or been integral to my life. My father. My boyfriend. And then, even myself. He grabs my hand, but I pull back, shocked. Then I regain my composure and take it. He pulls me up to the stone door.

"Are you ready?" I look back at the mysterious plaque in the floor and sigh.

"Can I come back here?"


"What if I never figure it out?"

He smiles. "Then it wasn't important."

It was oddly comforting. I nodded. "Okay."

I make to go through, but he vanishes.

I'm alone again. I press against the cold stone, but all it is is cold stone. What was a beautiful place of quiet and serenity, all the wonder the night has the offer is now cold, dark and oppressing. I'm alone. Damn it, I waited too long, and it closed without me, or it won't admit me, or ... I look back to the stone plaque, still there, but now I blame it and myself for being so preoccupied with it. And something tells me, though I don't know what, that I can't go back to it right now. And the words are cryptic, disguised anyway. Like everything else that's not important to me. Right now.

I keep pressing against the cold stone, but nothing. Absolutely nothing. Worried, starting to feel anxious and getting one hell of a migraine I begin to wonder if I really do have migraines classically as much, or if they're a physical manifestation of anxiety, fear, and loneliness.

It's getting so cold.

And then it dawns on me ... the portal's not the way. The 1979 portal wasn't for me. I look back at the plaque. It's ... doing something, saying something. I go back to the words, hearing them in my head, over and over and over again. I lean over, catching my reflection in the marble, polished to an unbelievable sheen, so clear as if you could touch it and it would ripple like water.

In the reflection, above me ... there are the leaves of trees. And I'm laughing.

And ... oh, my god. I'm happy.

It looks like water. It's big enough. I could maybe ... go in? I mean, stuff's odd here. Very Carrollian. Just maybe.

No. It's still stone. Just looks like water. I touch it, now the oil of my hands getting onto it, destroying the sheen the more I try. My reflection pauses, surprised that I can't get to her. She looks sad and then ... as if there's nothing else to do ... disappears from my view.

And I'm alone. Again.

"Come back!" I shout. "No, I can get there, I know I can!" I'm furious. "Fuck!" I hit the stone, cursing a thousand different ways, and trying not to feel as anxiety-ridden and depressed as I am. But I can't wake up yet. And what if I tried? Sometimes it's a terrifying experience if I'm this asleep, and there's no doubt, I'm seriously in the REM.

Resigned to that, I continue to stare at the stone, dejected, forlorn, wishing. I close my eyes, trying to centre myself and then reopen them, staring at the same spot as before. But this time ... it's different. Darker, but without the illumination of the light.

I'm back in the closet.

And then, somehow, I'm awake. Staring at the ceiling fan which I adorned with glow-in-the-dark stars to remind me of my college days which reminded me of my childhood. Relieved, my head is banging, and I get up to see what my boyfriend's up to, as I hear him at the computer, and maybe get something to drink. Something for my head, too, maybe.

I open the door. It's a hallway. We don't have a hallway. We have a very small space which connects the bathroom to the living room. You cannot call it much of anything, save for a wall suitable for a sizeable bookshelf.

Crap. I'm not awake.

And it's not the hallway leading from the same room where my mother grew up, no, this is the house where I grew up. This is the hallway I'd run down so many times with various friends and pets and projects and injuries and my first short stories and school papers. It's dark, though, of course.

Great. I hate the fucking dark.

That's when it clicks. I tried to wake up and failed, and it was dark, which means ...


Fire. It starts first from the windows in the old study where I'm standing, and begins to overtake the kitchen. The hallway is now completely engulfed in flame. I've been terrified before. I've wondered how this might feel in my worst nightmares.

Now I know.

This is worse than the dark.

I cover my mouth and run into the kitchen doing my best to avoid the flames which are growing higher and higher, making it impossible to go back where I've been, and the black smoke is creating a thickness in which I can't see anyway. I'm extremely dizzy ... and feel more tired than I ever did at work. I can barely move.

I get the first door open, the strong wooden one. Then I try the little handle on the glass screen door. Nothing. It refuses to budge. Or maybe I'm too weak. It's nothing but blurred black and orange, and so hot that I can't imagine my skin hasn't melted against bone, that there's any flesh left on my body. They say it's the heat, not the flame, if you can believe it.

I want to lay against the door and wait until it's over. Just fall asleep and drift and ... and what? I'll wake up. I always wake up. Don't I?

What if I don't? What if this is the most terrifying thing I've ever imagined, ever dreamed ... and I don't wake up? What then? There's been unexplainable deaths. People just ... die. I've myself been terrified of it.


I can't do that. My hand feels as if I haven't moved it for years. I push myself off of the door, bite my lip and disappear into the black and the orange, the flame and the smoke. I have to get enough of a run. I have to save my strength.

Then, I hit it. At first, I just hit it. And I try again. I don't dare look at myself. I don't know what's left of me. Back into the orange. Back into the black. And out again, stronger, faster, harder.

It shatters. I fall through it.

I'm expecting cold concrete, the porch that was. Maybe even a spring evening. More than anything, I'm expecting pain. Blinding pain. And to be awake.


The closet. I think. But it's cramped. My hands are tingling, but I have my hair, and my skin. Nothing is even singed. It just feels like my hands are regaining circulation.

I open the door. It's our bedroom. And there I am. Sleeping. I'm completely out, wearing my work clothes, curled up against the pillow just dreaming and dreaming away. It looks as if I have no idea what I've even been through. But I'm tired and really, really ready to wake up now. I get it, I think. We'll see.

So I walk over to her. Me. I don't think it'll take much.

"Wake up!" I shout. "Wake up, Auby! Wake up!"

I do. Sort of. Both of us do. I blink repeatedly, and nearly fall back into sleep. The dark hallway again. Something in the blackness.

Oh, hell no.

I wake up.

I wake up.

I'm awake.

Yes. I'm awake.

Myrashovik. 1979. What's important. The awful closet. The burning house. Going through the glass door. A dream. I'm awake now.

But am I? Am I truly?

I'm awake, but have I been reborn?

Time tells everything.

That's Logic!