6 of 52
Some of my earlier posts¹ were originally numbered, as in “1 of 52”, “2 of 52”, etc, and following that numbering scheme this post would be “6 of 52.” The reasoning behind this was I wanted to keep up making sure I updated at least once every week for a whole year, as if I could achieve that I could hopefully progress onwards at the same rate. The reason these numbers have been removed is they made the post titles unwieldy, and the posts are still saved on my computer under those titles. The reason I used those numbers in the post titles here in the first place is thanks to my recent migration from Tumblr, a site I chose to cease using thanks to its views on linking blogs to other locations⁴, and I wanted it to be clear that I didn’t just post EVERYTHING on this site for the first time today. But then I realised it didn’t really matter, removed the numbering, and now this paragraph is going to seem rather superfluous but I’m keeping it here anyway.
That’s… about it for that topic. Basically, I am going to update at least once a week, and you don’t need post numbering to work that out. Besides, by the time the year’s out I expect there’ll be well over fifty two posts here.
Gosh… this was rather pointless, wasn’t it?
I’ll do better next time.
Kedge
¹ Specifically “Possession, the Stupidity of Settling for Second Best and Weaponised Rape”, “Masks and Paint”, “What a Load of Bollocks”, “Poison” and “Get Your Sci-Fi On.”²
² I.e. all the non-fiction ones.³
³ Also the ones with footnotes.
⁴ Thereby popularising the site, which is apparently a bad thing. I’m happy to leave them be if that’s what they want, but I always hope that people read what I write. That’s why I started blogging in the first place. So I moved to WordPress. I quite like it here.
[Untitled]
I wrote this quite a long time ago.
He set her down gently on his bed, careful not to startle her, and then returned to the entrance to shut the door. With hands that would have been shaking the first few times yet now were rock solid he slid a pillow up beneath her head, to keep her comfortable. She looked so peaceful, her breathing light but definitely present, and that was a blessing. If he said that he hadn’t been hoping for the time when she was lying on his bed, he’d be lying. However, in his fantasies she had always been conscious. That presented an issue.
He pulled a chair over from his desk and sat down, casting his eyes over her slight form as he pieced together the events of the night and the corner of his vision caught sight of the digital clock shining out that it was so late that he may have called it early. He was glad it was not analogue, for the ticking might have been too much to bear.
They had been out to the park to meet with some friends of a friend. He should have known then that it was a bad idea, that there’d be only a few there that he knew and possibly even less that he liked, but he had been bored. And she had been eager. What was the harm in it? If any trouble kicked off they could just leave early, after all. There’d be nothing to stop them.
And at the start it had been good. There seemed to be no rampant drug takers, which was something he’d feared, just a bunch of people drinking alcohol and eating the trademark charcoal substitute you always find at an amateur barbecue. Good times, as they said. As usual, he was fairly sure that he had got more drunk first. He must have been, seeing as he vaguely remembered spending a good twenty minutes trying to chat up Harry Owens’ dog. Admittedly it was a very good looking dog, but it was still very much a canine and his sexual attentions tended to run much more in the way of homo sapiens. Harry hadn’t minded, at least he thought he hadn’t, he seemed less perturbed by his chatting up of the dog than he was by another bloke’s insistent advances on his mother.
A hand through his fringe discovered that his hair was damp. That’s what happens when you’re lying on the floor and the Smirnoff Ice misses your mouth. Not important. He remembered being roused from his poison-induced stupor when he had seen her between two guys he didn’t know, and was fairly certain she didn’t know either. Jealousy was often a close ally of sobriety, he had found whenever he had sat alone trying to drink jealousy away sobriety clung to him like an obsessive limpet. Of course he was stupid. How could he expect her to know he was interested if he never said anything? Much easier to just be there to pick up the pieces when the glass inevitably broke.
She stirred slightly, but it was more of a light murmur than a lively awakening. He sighed again.
The two guys he hadn’t known had wandered off with her somewhere… he thought it might have been the long grass but to his own guilt he could barely remember. His consciousness kicked in again perhaps… twenty minutes or so later. It might have been longer. Looking at the digital clock he feared that “longer” was far more likely. She had come back to him, with the two guys nowhere in sight and her walk about as far from a straight line as a roundabout is. She’d fallen on him and the blow to his face had knocked the last of the drunkenness out of him, although he was fairly certain it had been unintentional.
She had told him she wanted to go home, but he didn’t know where her home was. He had never been there. She was in no state to tell him. And halfway back to his flat she had passed out on him and he’d carried her the rest of the way.
It was a small mercy that she hadn’t been sick anywhere.
Get Your Sci-Fi On
Her name is Hope. She chose it herself, so that explains the rather obvious meaning. I first met her on her home planet in a hive called Itera, where she lived in the damnedest hell imaginable. What do you expect, she is a mutant. It’s not tolerated. Thanks to overexposure to the radiation and energies of the power plants in the lower levels (servicing the upper levels, naturally), Hope and most others from those regions have rotting, foetid skin, and if they have any hair at all it’s so thin as to be negligible. Hope’s is grey as stone. Yet her eyes are alive, and she burns with the fires of justice, and I like that. I love her for it. She may have been beautiful once.
His name is Brunnian, and he isn’t a mutant. He’s alien. A Phanten from the planet of Serengeta, he’s eight feet tall, four-armed and covered in thick, shaggy, brown fur. He’s got a trunk and four long tusks, and the alien speaks my own language better than I do. I met him on a docking station above a gas giant mine outside of Ascendancy space, full of drifters looking for the next job, always the next ship out of there. Working in the factories and mines to pay off the obscene debts they incurred in their first days there. There are waypoints like that all over the galaxy, but they didn’t have a four-armed starship pilot looking for work right when an enterprising Captain swaggered onto the station.
Its name is Ulyathrax. It was once a Terran female, but no longer. Of my companions, it is by far the most dangerous and the most insidious. A victim of the oneirovirus that ravages the galaxy, a once attractive girl has been twisted into a living representation of violent decay. She hovers a few inches above the ground and radiates intense cold; her body often floats foetal, accentuating her distended, bony limbs and concealing the modesty of the always-naked victim. She is emaciated and wasted, dotted with boils and weeping sores, and curled horns spiral from her grey forehead. She is not to be trusted, and never to be left alone, for I know… Damn, attributing a personality. It is Ulyathrax, and it will kill me as soon as it has the chance. But, so help me, our goals align at present.
And my name is Jacht Guildenstern. I’m a guy trying to get by, just like everyone else. I have a ship, I make money where I can, and I occasionally undertake guerilla raids deep into Ascendancy territory to fight dreams. It’s a horrifying galaxy, if you know where to look, and we do what we can.
* * * * *
So, that’s a bit of an introductory passage. Not sure whether I’ll do anything with it. I’m not really a fan of the first person, which is part of the reason I decided to give it a whirl. The characters are from a Rogue Trader RPG I set up for my ex-girlfriend¹, distilled from some allies her character had into a tighter crew. I may yet use others.
The more nerdy among you will know that Rogue Trader is a Warhammer 40,000 RPG, yet there were no references to the setting of that game in the text. There originally were. But literally as I was writing this just now, I realised I’m kind of… bored with writing Warhammer fiction. It’s an awesome universe and you’ll never hear me say otherwise, but I wanted to see if I could do my own sci-fi universe and I had some notes from a train journey last week that I thought would gel quite easily, so I decided to do it and edited out the bits about the 40k universe in the piece above. I’ve never actually made my own science fiction universe before. I think it still has that distinctive Kedge⁴ feel; but is a step away from the gothic/cosmic horror and surreal fantasy I’ve been writing so much of lately. I quite like it. I’ll probably tell you more about it later, when I’ve actually finalised some of it.
But what I will tell you now is that the standard “evil empire”⁵ is composed of anthropomorphic cats in powered armour and carrying man-portable nuclear weaponry. I have no idea what was going through my mind when I dreamed that up, but I love the idea of an emblem that’s the radiation symbol with the silhouette of a cat’s skull instead of the black circle in the middle.
I’ll keep you posted if anything comes from this, I can’t promise anything will but I’ll certainly at least flesh out the universe a bit.⁶
Thanks for reading,
Kedge
¹That went really well.²
² She didn’t want to play³ so much as hear me tell a story. I dislike railroading. If I want to tell a story, I’ll write it as one.
³ I didn’t force her in the first place, if that’s what you’re thinking.
⁴ I.e. Dreams. I realised that recently. They get everywhere in my work, if you know where to look. It’s not always intentional.
⁵ Which every space opera style setting must have at least one of by law.
⁶ Because I do, desperately, need more potential roleplay settings to pad out my already behemoth backlog.
Poison
I’d paralyse every last one of you. Cut you. Asphyxiate you and inhale your final breath like water to a drowning man. And then me. We all deserve this, but what matters most is YOU GO FIRST. We can’t stand against what’s before us and in our despair we turn to things empty, and void, and fill them with time and pound coins until they’re mountains of money, but they may as well be mountains of shit. And we’ll suffocate in it. And you’ll all enjoy it, you perverse bastards, you’ll be gagging for more as the machine you built shovels the excrement into your waiting, eager, gaping mouth.
The whole damn planet’s a human centipede. The Kings of the West eat, gorge themselves of fruit and goodness, far more than their fair share, and then boxes and sells their manure to feed their middle and lower classes, who in turn, unknowingly, pass it on to the developing world.
We’re all gonna share in this. We built it.
So man up, accept responsibility for the extent we’ve fucked this world to.
Sometimes I do wonder if any of us makes a difference at all. And the rest of the time? I know we don’t.
What A Load Of Bollocks
Saw a Like page on Facebook just now. This was it:
Women have the most difficult lives; We have to:
Shave our underarms.
Shave our legs.
Wax our privates.
worry about facial hair.
Shape our eyebrows.
Stress over our hair length.
Spend hours straightening or curling our hair.
Have to take time to put on make-up.
Constantly worry about our figure.
Suffer the first time we make love.
Bleed once a month for a week.
Give our all to prove we’re just as capable as men.
Carry a baby in us for 9 months.
Give birth.
Spend outrageous amounts of money on ‘fashionable’ clothes.
Freak out over how attractive we are.
Deal with sexist comments.
Sorry boys, but don’t say SHIT about how being a male is so hard, you don’t have to deal with half of those things.
What absolute bollocks. I mean… I don’t even know where to BEGIN about this. Only one of those is truly compulsory, two if you consider losing one’s virginity compulsory… The rest is just so much bullshit. If you really want to be taken seriously, stop fucking bitching.
I’m gonna go through each one in turn, and say something about it.
1. I understand this is most awkward. But is it really that hard?
2. Seems simpler than shaving one’s face.
3. Or just clipper cut them tidy. Men don’t give a shit whether it’s completely smooth or not, just so long as it’s not a fucking hedge down there.
4. Er… okay.
5. Do you HAVE to? Or will simply dealing with a monobrow should the issue arise do? I submit that it will. You don’t need to fucking SHAPE. Tidy if you feel it’s a problem.
6. You STRESS about this? I can’t even…
7. Oh shut up.
8. Grow up.
9. Get some fucking self esteem.
10. Conceded. Sorry.
11. Conceded.
12. Don’t judge yourself by the standards of others. That advice goes for the boys too, folks!
13. Conceded, should you choose.
14. As above.
15. OH FUCK OFF! This is the worst by far. There is no excusing this. Ugh.
16. See number 9.
17. Fight back, you morons.
Ugh. I… ugh.
Masks and Paint
Some of you may be wondering the reason for the barrage¹ of pictures of masks earlier*. They are, of course, to supplement this post. A post on a Saturday. I know I said I’d update every Friday, but I messed up with that² so my terms of updates have been edited: I shall never leave it more than a week between updates in future. Hence updating now!
“Yes, Wendy, we all wear masks. Metaphorically speakinnnng.”
Some people don’t like that movie. I believe they are rubbish, because that movie is awesome. I’m not here to talk about it, though, except for perhaps that one line. Because it’s pretty true. Most people have or have had a mask or two for separate occasions, and sometimes it even goes so far as taking over an entire aspect of their personality. I know I’m guilty of this, I reckon I’ve had at least three, but I don’t consider it to necessarily be a bad thing. Different things are expected of us in different times and different locations, so it’s natural to have a different face for those situations. I think it’s an important part of life, and I envy those who have never felt they had to wear a mask. I like to think I’ve broken through now, but that doesn’t mean I always saw it that way.
Because one’s back is the largest piece of “flat” skin canvas available, I’ve always thought it was important to be very careful about what one³ has tattooed on it. I’ve had most of my tattoos very clearly envisioned in my mind for years now, but I was never sure of what would go on my back. If you have a small thing there first, you need to be sure of a way to incorporate it into a larger design if that’s what you go for. I only decided exactly what I wanted on my back a few months ago, and I don’t know exactly what triggered it, but as you may expect if you’ve read the last paragraph⁴ the piece itself will be masks. A collage of them in black and shade, to be precise, and I’m not sure exactly how many will be there but it will probably be seven, nine or twelve. All looking “out” of my back, so if you look at any one of them they will be looking right back at you.
This idea has garnered considerable scrutiny in my own head, as the idea of terrifying the shit out of my girlfriend if she wakes up in the night and sees my back is not one I enjoy. But the meaning of the piece is something I want on me, and the masks that compose it are largely irrelevant, and chosen largely for the cool factor. The point is about the concept of the mask, not the individual masks themselves, so it makes sense to pick the coolest looking masks I can think of⁵ for incorporation into the piece, and because of this factor I welcome suggestions of masks for the tattoo. I also like the idea of having fourteen, eighteen or twenty four eyes always looking out for me where I’m not looking.⁶
Every now and again I get asked why I have tattoos at all. The people who ask this aren’t looking for the meaning behind my ink, they have already accepted that I chose my work based on a meaning to me not based on any aesthetic appeal, rather they want to know why I decided to put the meaning of things close to me in my own skin. So because of the regularity with which I am asked this question, I shall answer it here. I cannot say the reason is constant across all folks with tattoos, but it is all I can speak for.
It feels like the inside of my head is wallpapered with thoughts and concepts, things that will stay with me forever. Things such as the God of Laughter and the belief that even when the world is ending there is something worth fighting for. Because of the constant nature of these thoughts and feelings, I wanted to turn that wallpaper inside out with images that represent the concepts, so my body matches my head further.⁷ So that anyone looking at me can know what kind of man I am, even if the symbols and meanings aren’t immediately apparent⁸ they still see that I’m happy to wear my heart on my sleeve. I don’t have anything to hide and I don’t see why I should apologise for that. I don’t see why anyone should.
I know I said this one would be more frivolous than the last, and while I am sure that the idea of metaphorical masks and the potential reasoning behind having a tattoo are definitely above the post about mass rape, I know this one wasn’t really particularly frivolous either way. I’ll make it up to you next time.
Kedge
¹ I like the word “barrage.” I also considered “cascade” and “onslaught.”
* In the origin place of this blog. As this is a repost, there are no earlier pictures of masks. Just imagine them, that’ll do.
² Surprise surprise.
³ If one is given to such things.
⁴ If you’ve not read the last paragraph: what are you doing, you paragraph-skipping weirdo?
⁵ Naturally, this only follows my own opinion and the rest of the world may not agree.
⁶ I shall assume they have X-ray vision for the purposes of seeing through my tshirt. Also for perving on any sexy females behind me. Those sly, cheeky bastards.
⁷ Yes, I know some people have no wish or feel no need to do this, and that’s okay.
⁸ And of course they generally aren’t.
Possession, the Stupidity of Settling for Second Best and Weaponised Rape
It’s been a while. Quite a long while, actually. But new years call for new things, and one of these new things is my decision to actually go through with what I plan. It’s no secret that I am somewhat… lax in finishing what I start. No, that’s a lie. I’m a magpie that keeps finding new things to want to do, and as such things I loved at the time fall by the wayside. That’s why I’m depicted as a rainbow in the webcomic on Second Sphere¹ – you’ll never find the end of the rainbow. You’ll never see the end of my stories, though they may be beautiful in their time.
So I figured it was a good idea to change that. Reading back through things I’ve not finished I considered how I would have felt had I been the reader, and not the writer. And I realised that I was betraying people who looked up to me. And that’s bullshit. So no more.
So, back to blogging I go. The three ideas of the title break this article into three sections. The final one won’t be pretty.
Fair warning.
Possession
In the early days of December, my relationship with Kate finally laughed its last and she began moving out. She’s not quite done. She still has to collect the fridge, and presumably she wants her George Foreman Grill – she was pretty keen to get it back from her ex when we moved in together. That doesn’t bother me, because, for reasons that shall become clear in the second section, I just want her out of my life and I’m willing to cut back on anything I have to in order to make that happen.
Plus the grill is, you know, hers.
But I also owe her quite a lot of money. Well, I owed her quite a lot of money. Now I just owe her quite a bit of money. There’s a difference between a lot and a bit, and I’m not sure whether that difference is actually quantifiable, but in this case the relevant quantity is the tune of about £1500. In order to get this cash ² I pulled a favour from my Dad ³ and that dealt with the majority of the remainder, but I still had a bit to go. I’m not going to my Dad again, so this means I need to sell things. And… I’ve kinda grown attached to the valuable things I’ve accumulated over the years. But with a heavy heart I decided “fuck it” and put up every single one of my guitars for sale on Facebook (I didn’t want to have to sell all of them, so I figured that was safer than eBay), because no matter how much I love my guitars getting her gone is more important than all of them and everything they represent to me. Someone’s interested in one, so that’s good. I sold my Wii and my DS at CEX (I may do a post about that at some point in the future) and put the cash straight into her bank account.
That was last weekend. I’ve been thinking more as time’s gone on since then and I’ve realised that, of all these things that I have, there’s so many of them that don’t get used. I have far more guitars than I need. Far more DVDs than I ever actually watch⁴. Games I don’t play. Clothes I don’t wear. So I concluded that they had to go. Even the things I’ll get little or no money for, because that’s not so much the point anymore. The point is waste, the point is clutter, the point is hoarding stuff for virtually no purpose.
When am I ever going to watch Bridget Jones: The Edge of Reason again?⁵
I think we all have more things than we need or use. I think we always have. I’m not entirely certain of the point. When I was a kid, my friends usually had dozens of VHS tapes. Dozens. I’m not sure I even had ten⁶. This didn’t occur to me when I was small, at the time if I thought about it at all I’d just have considered it in terms of having less (which is ludicrous but anyway). The point is that I am sure that these kids (and their parents, as it wasn’t all Disney and nonsense) barely ever watched what they had. So what was the point of owning it? So many of my friends have simply colossal DVD libraries. Seriously, when was the last time you even watched a classic like Fight Club or Pulp Fiction or The Matrix? I bet the vast majority of you own them. What are they doing? Just sitting on your shelf? Gathering dust, waiting their turn ‘til you remember you own them and give them a watch, turning off halfway through to do something more enjoyable?
Is this particular quirk not the pure reason rental shops exist?
I’m not digging at people who own lots of DVDs. I’m not even getting rid of literally all of mine. I’m keeping Fight Club and I’m keeping Pulp Fiction⁷ because I do love those movies. I may want to watch them again, and the insurance is good to have. But I don’t love Bridget Jones: The Edge of Reason. It’s just taking up a space on my shelf, making everyone think I’m gay.⁸ So it can go. Along with Braveheart, Sweeney Todd and the Jurassic Park trilogy⁹.
Joining these DVDs will be guitars and Warhammer (that one’s got to be a subject for another post, this one’s bloated enough as it is). Clothes I barely wear (unless they’re just madly situational) will be going to the charity shop.
I don’t know if this has prompted anyone to realise that they own many things they don’t need, but I’d like to think it might.
The Stupidity of Settling for Second Best
Back to the breakup. Or rather, the relationship that precipitated it. I’ve not really talked about it openly before, but it’s had a profound impact on the way I act with everybody recently and I feel I should at least offer some thoughts on the subject. I’m not going to bitch about Kate. I’m not going to do that because it’s uncalled for, it’s unnecessary and sadly it’s not really true, despite how I may have made it seem to her at the time. It was my fault I felt the way I did¹° and she knew it. So I’m going, instead, to do what I do best.
I’m going to talk about me.
The piece of advice I shall impart to all gentlemen and boys (and ladies and girls, as it totally works both ways) is as follows:
When you know what you have is second best, do not allow things to become serious. Fling all you want, but don’t let it become any more.
I expect people are now going to think that I’m going to start talking about Kate’s sister, Lucie, as it’s not uncommon knowledge that I was interested in her first. I’m not going to talk about Lucie, because Kate’s not second best to Lucie in any way, I feel¹¹.
Instead, I’m going to talk about the girlfriend I had before Kate, Lauren Eve. Or Evee, as I called her.¹² When I met her it was like lightning. I knew I’d found something special, instantly. I didn’t have that with Kate, but I continued on anyway in my foolishness, figuring that Evee was a once-in-a-lifetime experience and nothing would be anything like the same. I could accept that. I could settle for average happiness, not perfection (or what I believed was it at the time).
It took lightning striking again, after the breakup, to realise how fucking stupid this was of me. How much of an idiot I’d been, hurting someone who did not deserve it, when I try not to hurt anyone at all.
Bottom line is, don’t settle for second best. You all had probably worked that out already, but if you hadn’t, here it is, I’m telling you. Have fun if that’s what strikes you, that doesn’t need to be perfect, but by Jingo¹³ if you’re considering moving in together stop right there and realise what it is you’re doing, because it’s likely that you’re going to seriously hurt someone further down the line. After the first lightning strike fizzles out if feels like you won’t get one again. But trust me, it can happen again.
Don’t settle.
Intermission
I’m going to let you guys have the footnotes now. Because if you don’t want to read the next section, you shouldn’t have to just to get to my anecdotes.
¹ Not because I’m gay. I’m not gay.
² Which, naturally, I didn’t have to hand.
³ I’m happy having an umbilical to him in the form of paying him back over time, I just want Kate gone.
⁴ Kate always had so many DVDs. That never made sense to me. One watch, then done. Massive waste, even to me.
⁵ To be fair, I’ve no idea why I bought that one in the first place.
⁶ This is “official” ones, not ones that are blank for recording purposes.
⁷ I don’t own The Matrix, for the reasons implied. I didn’t think I’d watch it that much.
⁸ I’m still not gay.
⁹ Star Wars stays.
¹° I.e. As if she was being a bitch.
¹¹ Sorry Lucie, in the extremely unlikely event of you reading this, I only mean that Kate was better for me in a relationship than you would have been.
¹² I’d already had a thing with a Lauren before. Didn’t feel right, and apparently she preferred it. That hasn’t stopped me dating two Kates, though.
¹³ I started saying this yesterday. I think I’ll continue.
Weaponised Rape
Okay, here’s the heavy, awareness-raising stuff. I’m a fundraiser. This means it’s my job to approach people in the street and make them realise the shit that’s going on in the world, and then give them the opportunity to do something about it. At the moment we’re working on behalf of the Red Cross, something I’ve done before, and these guys are, as everyone knows, somewhat of the Big Daddies in terms of disaster relief, warzone medicine and healthcare. But going over some of the information we’ve been given again, and looking deeper, I’ve learned some things that I’m appalled I didn’t know before. So, on the raising awareness side, I’m going to tell you guys.
Darfur’s a region in the Sudan. It’s wracked by civil war, and while there’s been unrest for decades the whole thing powder kegged in 2003. We don’t see it on the news, because the media doesn’t think it’s important. We already have a contract for oil in that region, so we don’t need to go in there and do anything. We don’t even need to report. We definitely don’t need to see.
And it’s difficult to see. It’s stuff that most folks don’t really want to know, but they know they should.
It’s more dangerous to be a woman in Darfur than it is to be a soldier.
The place is a warzone, so think about that.
The reason for this is the governmental forces have been trained and instructed to use rape as a weapon against the women of the peoples they don’t like in the area. If they’re not virgins, they can’t get married, and can’t perpetuate their society. Maybe that’s a backwards ideal in the first place, but that’s not the worst of it by a long way. We’re not talking one-on-one here. We’re talking about twenty soldiers. One woman. Over and over again, one after the other. These women suffer horrific physical damage from the assault as well as the emotional damage you usually expect from this particular violation. AIDS spreads, and there are pregnancies, too, breeding out the folks the government doesn’t like, causing the women to be ostracised from their communities for carrying a child not of their own.
You know how we have children’s hospitals? Or dental hospitals?
Out there they have rape hospitals. Full hospitals, just of rape victims. Rows of beds of these women. Go to one of these hospitals with a broken leg? They won’t help you. That’s not what they do. They barely have the resources to help the people they are established for.
There are very few places in this region where a woman knows she is safe, but one kind of place is a Red Cross camp. The Red Cross works in the largest refugee camp in the world in Darfur, called Gereida, which has a population just shy of that of Huddersfield. Oxfam aren’t there anymore, they pulled out because it was too dangerous.
This is just one of the reasons why I’m proud to do what I do. Supporting, and encouraging others to support, organisations dedicated solely to helping others and fighting atrocities in the darkest parts of the world.
Why have I told you this? Because if you don’t know something, you won’t do anything about it.
Thanks for reading, guys. Apologies for the mood whiplash.
Final Statement
As I said in the introductory bit, I’m returning to blogging and carrying it through. I’ll update every Friday, or more often if I get something I really want to get out there, but never more than a week will pass between updates. So watch this space, and I’ll try to make the next one more frivolous!
Kedge
Notations & Nihilism 