CHAPTERS : | 01 | 02 | 03 | 04 | 05 | 06 | 07 |
"Academy. My studies in Electropology did not help today. The back panel of the
unit was easy enough to detach, dismantling the thing was a different matter, though.
After six hours, I had numerous parts on my workbench. A good start. No, as to
its workings I still do not have a clue. It is a small device, the crafting and
design of a make alien and wonderful. Alas! Salt water is merciless. Rust, corrosion.
Eight months submerged.
The ministry is impatient. The engineers overworked and the press is thirsty. I'm hoping to gain a better understanding of their symbols by trying to understand their machines. I'm a fisherman. Various decoders work day and night attempting numerical permutations of an infinite likeness. Who knows how long. I have this feeling, call it intuition, that their search is pointless. There's too much art in their lines and shapes, too rich and deep to be decoded by the non-organic. Not even Miracle Workers can touch this!
My office is a stack. Material. I found reference in legend, a cave in the outskirts
has symbols which, although varying in stroke and curve, have several similarities
worth investigating. I will leap to it tomorrow."
FROM KOR'S PRIVATE WRITINGS, Page 426 - PRIME MINISTER OF TITICACA
"Being exiled is not such a bad thing. I get provisions delivered on the first of
every month, and I'm not deprived of my art. I was able to bring my instruments with
me and I get fresh supplies of paper and charcoal whenever I ask for them. Books are
available. I have a screen but no means to communicate with anyone. My only contact is
Ral, the boy who delivers my supplies. He's quiet and thorough. Seldom forgets my
requests, and, since I no longer have need for an eloquent tongue, or idle chatter, our exchanges
are usually kept to hello, and goodbye.
It is an island. But the sort of island one would build a vacation house in.
Tomatoes are planted along the fence, radishes and carrots trail the backdoor. There's a large
plum tree in the backyard, and old rusty swings, once the playthings of someone's
children, move to the coastal winds and sing a metallic song through greater part of the day. There is
not time. Can't keep track of time. My shoulders are burdened no more. Time doesn't mean
anything once you drop your weights. I did my part. I'm a ghost. A ghost on vacation."
FROM KOR'S PRIVATE WRITINGS, Page 742 - PRIME MINISTER OF TITICACA
C A C A : 01 | 02 | 03 | 04 | 05 | 06 | 07 |
M A N : 01 | 02 | 03 | 04 | 05 | 06 | 07 |