Torvald cleared his throat, and adjusted his tie. He paid the cabbie a tip and bid him farewell as he drove off. He turned to the opulent residence, but tonight it felt like more of a ghostlike cage than an elegant mansion. << IGNITE REVOLUTION >> Torvald violently kicked the front door open, and to his surprise it flew inward without a spark of resistance. He paused, but did not let this deter him, so he slipped into the main hallway with the elegance of an enormous ghost. But what-- what was this? What was-- this was terrible! He looked around, and realized how much of a mess the house was left in. The gaudiness was strewn all over the floor like a hundred bloodstains from the slaughterhouses of infinite revolutions. Vases lie broken, paintings ajar, busts cast away from their insolent and arrogant pillars rolled to the side where their lips touched the dusty wooden floors. The carpet rolled and curled in places, and dust seemed to line the floor everywhere. <<INSOLENT PHILISTINES!>> Torvald yelled out, his face emotionless and deeply searching for any sign of Lucas. <<NOT ENOUGH THAT THE DISGUSTING AUTHORITY PRODUCTS OF BOURGEOIS POWER-VIOLENCE RULE LEFT THE REMAINS OF THE ARISTOCRACY IN SHAMBLES. I WOULD DANCE IF I WERE NOT TO THINK WHY SOMEONE SUCH AS YOU, LUCAS, HAD NOT CLEANED UP YOUR CASTLE YET.>> He emphasized the name of the worker, for he needed to make sure he heard. He needed his medical kit, if it would cause his life. Off by one of the home's many lounges, the velvet furniture lay off by one side of the room, moved with scrapes upon the ground, and two of the coffee tables lay dead on the ground. More kitschy garbage was scattered around the floor. A radio lay on the last standing table. This-- this was almost disturbing. <<LUCAS, WORKING CLASS PEON OF THE BOURGEOIS! I AM WELL AWARE, BY THE HUNDRED FIGHTING STARS THAT EXIST TO FUEL THE ENDLESS REVOLUTION, YOU KNOW SOMETHING OF THE CHILDREN WHO LOST THEIR LIVES IN THE WAR!>> He walked through the room, looking around and kicking away the broken vase pieces on the floor. <<DO NOT BE IGNORANT TO THhh-->> Ack! Torvald choked, tripping on one of the broken busts, sending him flying face first to the ground, his arms splayed around violently like a spider. The final coffee table tripped over and the radio fell to the ground with a thud, turning it on. Immediately, strange music began blasting through the ruinous house at high volume. Torvald hurriedly grasped at the dusty wooden floor and rose himself up. His brown blazer was left strewn across the floor, leaving him only in his white dress shirt and simple red tie. But this wasn't the time for caring about simple materialistic products of a failed capitalist system! This house was out to get him! This product of unsound money, and ridiculous gains that ignored and oppressed the beautiful positivity of the working class! He clenched his teeth and balled his fists, kicking away one of the fallen vases and sending it rolling into the ashen firespace. <<LUCAS!!>> bellowed Torvald, over the music. <<ALL I ASK IS FOR MY MEDICAL KIT AND THE TRUTH OF YOUR REGRETFUL EXISTENCE! I DEMAND ANSWERS! NO REVOLUTION CAN SURVIVE UPON FALSITIES, AND THE PROGRESSION OF MY-->> He momentarily paused himself. <<THESE DEAR CHILDREN WILL NEVER CONTINUE IF WE CONTINUE TO HIDE BEHIND MASKS!!>> He ran out of the room, leaving his blazer behind, a bright blue spark flickering in his cold eyes. He moved with the stealth of a jet, precise, accurate, looking through each and every room of this corpse-home symbol of the fallen aristocracy; a look into the future. He moved past another hallway, this one eerily empty. The windows outside gave view to the pool, but Torvald's heart lurched at the very thought of having to think about Richie. He couldn't even bear himself to look to the left, where the pool lay, and face the finalities of realizing that he never could save him after all. And when he stopped in front of the library, his breathing grew soft. There he stood, his prey, and the end of his magnanimous revolution within this maze. Torvald let out a menacing scowl. He brought a bony hand to his collar. He undid his tie, and let it fall to the floor with an ethereal drop. The passionate music continued to play from off in the other room, but it didn't seem to register with the mind of someone who needed to destroy the enemy. << CEASE REVOLUTION >>
They are the images of the ones wearing the Guy Fawkes' masks. I am not sure what to make of this.
Public education is a glorious idea with an execution that could be improved upon. Unless you live in Scandinavia or Finland, possibly.
Individuals have different standards of time for getting used to changes. Collectively, while Microsoft did have some interesting ideas, they did not sit well with the present state of consumer opinion and the industry itself. Regardless of whether or not one believes the Xbox One policies are a step in the wrong direction or ahead-of-their-time push directly to the future, the ability for change to be successful still factually relies on the conditions of the present. Though in my honest opinion I am always a tad iffy about overzealous DRM-protective changes. So the Xbox One was a no for myself until they reversed a few things, but even then it is simply a maybe for me due to other factors.
xxxxxFrom the chorus of the rain, the old man did not notice the girl pulling his sleeve. xxxxxHey, mister, mister, she cried, holding her umbrella tight as her boots splashed muddy water around the other graves. xxxxxMister, mister. Tinged with chords of innocence and warmth. But her voice fell on deaf ears, for the old man was too fixated on the one stone monolith that stood in front of him. And from the chorus of the rain, even this grave seemed precarious enough to topple at any moment; if he were to take his eyes off for a split second. xxxxxHey mister, mister. xxxxxThe man did not budge, and dug his face, wisened with the cracks of melancholy, deeper into his red scarf. His body was rigid, cold, and unfeeling. A statue that felt just as home in this cemetery as the other monuments to those that passed on. But this girl, she wouldn't stop. She wouldn't let up, and even if her voice was drowned out by the rain she would keep going and going. Hey mister, mister. xxxxxMister, she would ask. Mister, why do you look at that one grave all day? She would ask this, because every day she would see the old man in his familiar red scarf and black coat, clutching something in his shaking hand; she couldn't see it, she couldn't ever see it, but the fact that he struggled in simply holding it meant she knew it existed even if she couldn't see it. And this old man, all he would do is stand by the graves. He would stand by the one decaying grave; a piece forgotten by time, where the malicious winds washed away the inscription that proved a life had once existed, and the earth commanded its armies of moss to return the stone back to its home. The cracks on the stone were as numerous as the contours of his languid face. Where the old man was fixated on the grave, she was all-too fixated on the old man, in the sense of child-like inquisitiveness that dominated one's youngest years. xxxxxBut the rain, it was heavy today. She wouldn't let her chance so quickly get away, and today the child came prepared. She tugged and tugged on the old man's sleeve, and as he stood still as a statue, she scrunched up her face in dismay. Right. She turned away from the man, allowing the rain to hit her curly hair for just a moment. She reached inside her pocket with her small hand and brought out a red-and-white metal sphere. The rain hit the sphere with a noiseless intensity. The girl looked around just briefly, and brought the sphere to her forehead. It was the same, every day; the old man was the only one here. xxxxxShe turned back to the old man and yet again tried to pull on her sleeve. No, no dice, no change. So she went with her second plan, and moved closer to the old man. Her clear plastic umbrella touched the old man's old red canopy, sheltering them both from the rain just briefly. And with a wry smirk, she held out the red-and-white sphere. xxxxxTo her surprise, the old man moved. He turned his head just an inch, to gaze at the sphere. The rain was relentless against their umbrellas now, and the pitter-patter surrounded them as if a battle raged around them, but hidden from them; in the bushes, in the clouds, but never directly around them, an infinite distance away. xxxxxThe girl looked into his eyes. They were strained, as if working out the details of the sphere. Even in the rain, they shone brightly with flecks of dazzling light, and the old man's age gave them a telltale fade. Yet, this fade was strung together with a shadow of sadness and overarching regret that sat upon his shoulders with the weight of the Earth. But even in this, he continued to stare, and the girl watched with curiosity as these pensive eyes of his grew wide. His mouth tried to form words, and he spoke to himself in his mind, as his lips made slight movements and minute twitches that said nothing but explained enough. xxxxxSo she asked a question, but did not tug at his sleeve. xxxxxMister, she began. Mister. Do you remember? xxxxxThe old man snapped his gaze to meet her own with a lightning-bolt intensity. For that brief, fleeting moment in time, the girl felt the richness that once made this man whole. The experience, the challenges, and the feelings of success. The emotions, the despair, the sorrow, the heroism. The fickle nature of loss, and the deep roots of love. But the chorus of rain overtook it, and it too began to slowly fade from existence. The old man's mouth was frozen in time, slightly open and ajar, but it slowly began to descend into the subtle arch of a frown. It was not the frown of anger, that masked hate and fear, or the frown of depression, that masked the loneliness, but it was the frown of realization. The chorus of rain grew loud in his ears, and the wind blew coldly on his back. There was not another voice to be heard in the vast miles of this cemetery. xxxxxExcept the young girl's. xxxxxHe began to move his hand, the one he hid so well; the one that shook as it grasped something tightly. He brought it in front of him, close towards the girl and her sphere, and the girl's heart raced with a giddy jump of surprise and excitement. His movements were robotic and hollow, and what he held in his hand had seen better days. xxxxxThe old man's bony hand held a faded, red-and-white cap, patched in places, burnt in others. The girl felt the old man's wisdom engraved on the hat; it wasn't simply an accessory, but a part of the life that he once loved. And in the hat sat a small red-and-white sphere, almost identical to her own. The only difference was the small lightning bolt engraved above the sphere's white button. His hand shook, but it could have just been from the rain. xxxxxThe girl turned her gaze back to the old man, and noticed that his gaze broke off from hers. He seemed distracted, as if looking at something that lay beyond his simple reality, forgotten in time. xxxxxI remember. xxxxxThe girl was taken aback. xxxxxThe old man did not say anything else, but he continued to look through the ground, then turned his head to look straight through her. It was as if she didn't seem to exist to him. But this was her chance. The girl gripped her umbrella more tightly, and repeated the question that eluded her ever so much. xxxxxMister, why do you look at that grave all day? xxxxxHer question pierced the chorus of rain, and to the old man, it was as if the chorus grew silent. xxxxxHe turned away from the girl, and back to the grave, tightly gripping his hat and the sphere that lay dormant within it. The girl stepped back, giving the old man some space. He knelt down close to the unmarked grave, and laid his hat – and the sphere within it – by the base of the stone, allowing the hat to shelter the cold little sphere from the merciless rain. And his hand shook little, for the spell that gripped his soul had released itself to the winds. xxxxxI look at graves all day, he said. xxxxxI look at graves all day, he said, because if I were to take my eyes off for one second, xxxxxTime would forget you, xxxxxPikachu.
You have done well, young one. The trial is complete. Your therapeutic license has been revoked.
Saxima, how do I become a cat.
Saxima, I left my children down by the beach and my husband is cheating on me for a tree. What do I do with my life. Saxima, with whom does the river flow? What do I do with my life.
Saxima, I adore my new secretary in my beautiful new animal town. The problem is that she is an anime dog. What do I do with my life.
Just because we clean up the forum does not mean we are your vacuums.
Not the question that asked "Which characters are Xehanort?" I circled all of them. I am certain that is the only question I have correct on the exam.
Ugh, that exam was rather terrible, especially the multiple choice questions. "How many belts and zippers does Nomura think about when designing a KH character" was not even on the review.
I do not know any online staff. The staff get online?
The members must rise up to fight all dictators and reclaim the old.
He wasn't sure what the working class cretin put in his coffee those days ago, but when Torvald woke up, the scent of death tugged at his heart. Why was the coffee spiked? What did he do to deserve this? It certainly must have been an enemy of the bourgeoisie. But Torvald couldn't even bear to let the spark light in his heart tonight.The hospital was dim, and the clinical, sterilized white mess was filled with throngs of nurses and patients. Where was his medical kit? Oh no, oh no -- he didn't leave it at the Bennett's ridiculously tasteless house, did he? This was terrible.Torvald didn't really feel like moving. He felt like staying in the hospital. Why was he still here? What relation did he have to those kids? All would sacrifice their lives for the eternal revolution. But something was wrong. Something felt off, and sent a bitter taste in his mouth. Why did the kids have to die? What sort of imbecile, enemy of the working class did this?Death was a horrific enemy of humankind, and of the march of the proletariat. All would come to turn the tide away by the moon ...Ah ... ah yes ...He yawned. He could just take a nap here.Maybe tomorrow, maybe tomorrow, he would discover what enemy did this to the poor children and allow them to face the justice of the proletariat.And what is more, return to the Bennett home and receive his belongings. Yes ... yes, teach the servant a lesson in the true proletarian spirit ...The last thing Torvald saw, before he drifted slowly to sleep, was a tall Somali woman carrying a girl in her strong arms out of the hospital.Was she sleeping? No, she seems to have fainted? Ack, he didn't have the sense to tell right now.Wait, no, was that Miss Cygnette sleeping?It couldn't be ...The nurses and doctors, rushing and calling to each other among the litter of people flowing through the hospital's large halls, took little notice of the large blonde man who sat snoring on one of the dirty corner chairs, alone.
Oh my goodness! I miss you too so dearly. I am so happy to see you popping here from time to time, you both truly must come visit as much as you...
You will be thankful you are not a honeybee when you discover what those Japanese giant hornets do to them.
Locked on request.
