The face of a killer

He told the flirty guy not to touch his wooden leg. The flirty guy did. He'll now discover that broken faces make friends badly.

This is the end

... My dearest friend.

This morning I was silently awoken by a few members of the cult. They were about to engage in a small and lesser known ritual and thought its practice to be of interest to me. The ritual is all about caressing and self-restraint. Sadly not that visible in the picture are the small pins with which they carefully and tenderly scratch each other's skins. Tracing and carving without bleeding. Rarely did I witness such loving destruction. How far removed is this from a Frostygirl's indifferent frenzy or the Aquaposies' vain self-esteem. I can already sense the difficulties I'll have explaining it all once I get back home in the BXL.SPHERE. Whenever I do, it'll be too soon.

Time seems to fly by. I've been residing on the camping island for the last ten days. Weather control during the ritual mass has been fairly effective and only once did the rainclouds manage to get the upper hand. Resulting in a furious storm. Although frightening at first I must confess the lightning and thunder, the percussive sound of the rain on our tents did enchant me. I feel the architects of our urbanscapes painfully forgot to integrate the sensation into daily LifeProg. I'll need to annoy my local GovMan about the issue upon my return.

Dead dogs get no love in this world. Or do you now suddenly care?

Endless sequences of technical difficulties, the details of which I'll spare you, have prevented me of posting any sooner. They have all been resolved and luckily so, as I wouldn't dare keep you from the image above. I secretely took it while attending an Ardam cult weather ceremony. The trip there was easier than anticipated. A short ride by boomer to the northern border of the BXL.SPHERE and one of the boomboats to the flooded area of what used to be ADM.SPHERE. The densely populated floating decks should convince any GovMan to reinstate its SPHEREstat. However the lack thereof did give space for the strangest and most liberating movements to emerge. As demonstrated by the Ardam ceremony I was allowed to witness. Peaceful and superstitious they are. Praying to the clouds for guidance. And despite my inbred scepticism I wouldn't dare break the magic they see and live. Better yet, their Sahn-na (a sort of head priestess) invited me along to the forthcoming Ardihm camp. A two week trajectory for Ardam children on one of the remote floatSPHERES they built outside the grasp of Gov supervision. Trees, dunes, beaches, everything one could imagine. Needless to say, I accepted the offer. How could I not...

It's long past newsworthy that the kids don't know the true and natural origin of their Calcimilk beverage. And I hardly found myself in the righteous position of judging them about the lack of that knowledge. Until this morning I no longer thought about the source of the fishmeat I consume on an almost daily basis. Yet this morning's encounter with an actual fisherman (a profession my naievete thought long extinct) only painfully revealed the damage done to my worldliness by networking ever farther in an ever more closed cocoon of entertainment, tech and consuming. This particular fisherman (the word still feels like antique to me) was in the unlucky position of venturing too close to the Northscreen barrier when the, until now badly explained, explosion in the LDN.SPHERE occurred. His hands blistered, burned and now feel almost as if molded out of chunky dried-up clay. What the violent event might have done to those dwelling nearer to the blast I hardly dare imagine.

Most of the people living this side of the Northscreen Barrier will have been awakened by the flash and thunderclap behind the horizon around 0320CET last night. The ones that slept through it all will find their feeds incessantly buzzing with the news that the LDN.SPHERE is no more. Where once the towers defiantly stretched towards the skies craters have taken root. As far as designated GovMen dare to reveal it's all to blame on an unidentified "alien race". The alien scouts reported to their generals (throughout the 1950s) that our roofs were filled with antennae, suitable for docking their Hubships. The fact that these 20th century antiques of commtech no longer are in use must have ticked-off the captains after the long spacejump. The destruction that ensued, cold-hearted decimation by the sound of the earth cracking in two, nothing more than the rumblings of petty revenge and disillusion. It sounds awfully far-fetched, but it's all the GovFeeds are willing to claim. Meanwhile LDN is beyond ruin. And I reluctantly await the unavoidable flood of images showing us the dead, the homeless, the scarred and wounded...