Seeking the Dark Tower

On the path that eventually leads to the clearing in the woods, the Charyou Tree. Fraught with danger, fear and loss, and yet, fulfillment. Welcome.

Thursday, March 15, 2007

Retro-virus

Retro-virus:
Definition - A type of virus that has RNA instead of DNA as its genetic material. It uses an enzyme called reverse transcriptase to become part of the host cells' DNA. This allows many copies of the virus to be made in the host cells. The virus that causes AIDS, the human immunodeficiency virus (HIV), is a type of retrovirus.

Also, known as a virus that was found in the 80s:




Haw, Haw.

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Wednesday, March 07, 2007

are you sure which side you're on?



See the animal in his cage that you built,
Are you sure what side you're on?
Better not look him too closely in the eye,
Are you sure what side of the glass you are on?
See the safety of the life you have built,
Everything where it belongs
Feel the hollowness inside of your heart,
And it's all...right where it belongs

If he could fall and spiral into the darkness

What if everything around you,
Isn't quite as it seems?
What if all the world you think you know,
Is an elaborate dream?
And if you look at your reflection,
Is it all you want it to be?
What if you could look right through the cracks,
Would you find yourself...find yourself afraid to see?

if he could question everything

What if all the world's inside of your head?
Just creations of your own
Your devils and your gods all the living and the dead
And you're really all alone
You can live in this illusion,
You can choose to believe.
You keep looking but you can't find the woods,
While you're hiding in the trees

If Trent made it out alive, then why can't I?

Meet Pann Demie


This picture has always allured me. maybe one day i'll have something similar to show. Personally i call it the fair. Woman with the headscarf and brolly might be called Pann Demie, sister to Ann Nomalie. Who knows? We'll see...

(copyrights go to the Flying Sotong Can. Don't you just love her art!)

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Sunday, March 04, 2007

half life of fright

a friend posed this statement:

What happens if you get scared half to death.. twice? *ominous tone*

um, you die? I mean, its like scared twice of half equals one, heck, that means your life is effectively scared to death, fully! Ha!

Genius people (like me), turn around and say, Nay, young padawan, you still have much to learn. Look at these figures and understand:

Lets consider your life represented by a bar, for your simple brain's comprehension's sake. Now, if you were to be SCARED HALF TO DEATH, it would mean you'd have, yes, yes, clever padawan! Half a life left!
Alright, enough rejoycing, little trailhand, there's still much that remains to be unfolded.

Now. Suppose you were scared, as we've defined, HALF TO DEATH again. Gasp! Does it mean the remaining life you had would be gone to the death of fright?

Think carefully now, little padawan.
No. I suppose you still need guidance. Gaze upon below figure and see if you understand:


Its simple math, you see. You can get scared half to death for an infinite amount of times, but never die. Your life just gets halved and halved but never reaches zero.

LESSON OF THE DAY: You cant get die from getting scared half to death, twice!

Well. Upon this brilliant explanation i was told to

"...get a life, you moron..."
"wtf yc where the hell you get so much time for such shit..."
"dude. (insert finger-flipping emoticon here)"
"oh man you need to get laid."
"errhhh...."

See? Genius is always misunderstood. And unappreciated.

- Yc out

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Friday, March 02, 2007

hello, mail

He scanned the expanse that was the desert. All around him was golden sand and clear blameless sky. As if it was supposed to sound that nice. The air was harshly dry and seemed to suck moisture from his breath. Still, it was beautiful.

All he had for now was his guitar, companion and sometimes friend, which even now was cracking in the heat of the sun. The desert was not kind to those made of wood grown from luxuriant forests. And the mailbox as well, its bright red paint nary faded from the sun but nonetheless peeling. Somehow the letter he sent from the wasteland was coming back. He looked onward over the dunes, trying to spy the nimbus beyond the horizon.

He tried to strum a few lines from an interstate love song, singing to the desert how some hickboy was hitchhiking on a train southward bound, explaining how some lies had made him decide to see the world from a carriage window. The chords rang thinly through the hot air, straining to reach past the dunes and gave up. Nothing made past the desert’s wide empty spaces for long, and it was a straining effort to even go past the few dunes circling the lonely knoll he was on. The song was soon ditched along with the guitar when he forgot what the rest of the lyrics were. The desert didn’t seem that concerned about hickboy’s ride on the train anyway. Maybe he made it to where he was going, found a job and settled down. Maybe he continued on the train until he was discovered by the conductor and thrown onto the rail. Maybe he got raped by a hobo. Dosen’t really matter, does it?

He stroked the neck of the guitar lying by his side. As if on cue, the top string finally broke in the heat of the sun. He stared at the now errant string ailing on the sand. Oh well. Just have to make do with five strings. Its just that the solos might not be that good anymore. Still, no worries.

Pink is a color. It is also how a letter being popped into a mailbox sounds like. He got up in a hurry, kicking hard alkali dust onto the guitar. The other strings were following suit, finally giving up and snapping one after another, slapping the body of the guitar in one final cry. The guitar itself was also beginning to crack, whiten and shrink. Like hickboy, the guitar was reaching its end of the road at the clearing. It was a shame, a sad thing, but it didn’t matter to him anymore. He stared at the mailbox and walked towards it.

He opened the cover, and darkness fled further into the recesses of the mailbox.

Hello, mail.

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