the jatsman

"...yes it is a familiar place, a chance to collect your thoughts, to think back, and always reminds me of Fawlty Towers for me Cleese at his peak, and he was dating the delectable Connie Booth at the time who played the waitress/budding artist in the series, and it was hardly based on a myth having stayed at a few similar hotels in my time. I remember causing havoc at one once, when a girlfriend and I were up drinking late and when we ran out of cigarettes we decided to nip to the service station ten miles away to re-stock, but found that the hotel was all locked up, shut down for the night, well it was 3am, and so we let ourselves out by the kitchen door without a thought. Upon our return we were greeted by the irate owner on the doorstep in his dressing gown as unbeknown to us we had triggered off all the alarms upon our escape and only five minutes earlier the place had been crawling with police. It was a mixture of relief, I was not fit to drive I will admit, and guilt, as we stood their trying to keep a straight face in our bare feet apologising profusely, and at breakfast we kept a low profile, some stifled giggles perhaps, when all our friends were telling us of the burglary in the middle of the night that had disturbed them from their sleep. Oh the impetuousness of youth, at being in your peak".

the jatsman

repost as usual...

"...Ah to love then..." says the chameleon enjoying typing on this dark background again "...to love, that vicious two headed beast that can send your spirit soaring like no other substance can, then drag it to the depths of despair welding your feet to the ground and every step in those leaden boots draining the life blood from your cheeks, once caressed by the lips of your lover who now stabs at your flesh with thought and deed. To Love, that weapon of choice for some, the word stabbing with accusation, not enough, as much as some other, or unrequited even, such poisonous, deceitful words and deeds surrounding it, or used excusing these, or because of it. To love, the reason for existence, or the reason for existences end, to live to die to fly and soar upon a wave of elation entwined to another's soul, feeling as if you could fly right into the sun, before crashing in flames to the ground. Ah to love then, would we be better off without it, or would we not be mankind without it..."

fleamailman

("...OK..." said the goblin, "...I will be posting on this site for real in ten posts time...")

the jatsman

the chameleon changes before replying "...just post some nonsense in the games thread so your game can begin... hurry up, I want to win this one..." he chuckles

fleamailman

("...done ten post, what are the locals like..." asked the goblin)

repost from elsewhere

somehow the goblin had changed, saying "...before I started this Muse's pact, I might have been someone who had wanted happiness, but now, I know that if I had been content, I wouldn't have even seen, nor felt, nor understood half of what goes on around me...", outside, in that hum of this late city's night that contrasted, or complimented, the methodical ticking clock on those white walls around him, and with that countless majority beyond that, who still wanted "to be happy" here, and yet, the goblin's feeling at this point was one of awareness and depth, "...happiness is just one color on the palate of life, I need all the colors to create, I want to mix those colors together, the sadness and the tears on the one hand, with the joy and laughter on the other to create something beautiful, but above all, I don't want know the outcome, oh no, this author mustn't know how life's story ends, even if that ending is the same for us all that is..." said the goblin feeling the need of this "last post" thread once more, the clock ticked away his moments but every moment here was worth it to him he felt now


3

the jatsman

"...oh good, I will get some posts ready then... as for the locals well I know they are there but I have never met them bar brief contact with one who gave me clues on how to make this thing they call food, and by coincidence I have just been practising it, delicious it was..." he licks a little bit of black bean sauce from the corner of his mouth "...admin seems friendly too, leaves me too it, I suspect it's a female then as the best ones usually are, good luck then, they like their games here, but, you know I will win, as ever..." laughs the chameleon as he looks through his box and muses what to post next

fleamailman

("...sounds good, it often starts off like this then..." said the goblin)

the goblin quickly confessed to their being reposts, explaining "...a live writer writes a post like a normal member does, but then he stores it after that first posting, knowing that each time he reposts it he will edit it slightly...", something a bit like van goth's sunflowers where he did eight portraits of them, saying "...the writing in third person is merely an indulgence on my part, simply a need perhaps, both to know what obstacles writers face when writing, and a wish to become fluent enough to counterbalance the onset of ones old age here, and the matching picture is more or less the same type indulgence then...", no, the goblin felt that the "live writer" was just a pokemon upgrade of a normal poster, where, apart from this obvious storing and reposting of posts then, together with the constant output too, and that of having a recognisable persona, there was no difference between him and anyone else


92

the jatsman

"...like I have said, very quiet, a chance to practice but no explaining of the whys and the wherefores of why you cross your t's and dot your i's or use ellipses with so called writers or other trolls, a quiet rehearsal for the main event, a peaceful training camp for me, tho I am sure you will liven things up a bit now then..."

Cookie Parker

THAT'S random....

the jatsman

"...welcome to Randomness then Cookie, but now that Flea is here the best is yet to come, treat him well..."

The chameleon sees the masked man appearing, perhaps a stealing, he has no problem with that "...for how could I, me, with all my masks, pursuing shiny things that lie within my grasp..." he takes off a few more layers, fresh from padding across the overnight snow, which will no doubt cause chaos tomorrow, and stokes up the fire with one of his freshly acquired logs "...no, take what you will, say what you like, it is random here, "we make a living by what we get, we make a life by what we give"... if given from a good heart".