Quickly

The Mummy: Tomb of the Dragon Emperor!

Corntastic. Oh yea.

Three stanzas of an unfinished sonnet:

The World will ration out
. . . . its love and hate,
As it is measured by
. . . . the weight of blood
Upon your hands. And when
. . . . the hour is late,
You'll execrate the ground
. . . . on which you stood.

Would Victory not not live
. . . . upon its price?
You swell, triumphant, clutch
. . . . the Earthly fame
That 'round you furls the flag
. . . . of Sacrifice.
O martyr, bend your head
. . . . unto the flame.

Go, sit behind their tithes
. . . . of straw and gold.
Your paper palace raised
. . . . above the smoke
Of burning empires, where
. . . . your eye meets cold
The pages of a foe
. . . . you can't provoke.






[I've been staring at this for a while now]

Poison treasure

How about making lists of people you wish were in love with you, no matter how bad it would be, no matter whether or not you'd love them back? It would turn into one of those dark, horrible, secret things... hidden away somewhere, likely to be found after one's death and assumed a hitlist.

Or, I suppose, that last bit depends entirely on the sort of life you lead.

What about leading one's life in such a fashion so as to confuse a later biographer? What about misdocumenting oneself in order to hope for the truth to wake up, one day, and be different.

How about how much control we have by force of will on our surroundings? Does it fluctuate... wouldn't it? All of the other ambient energy in the universe does, I imagine... Perhaps psychic powers are fed by the radiation in solar wind, or some other similar force? Sometimes the magic works, sometimes it doesn't. Some nights there is aurora borealis to watch, some nights there isn't.

It's very low, right now. Very low. Very cold.