Recent Entries

(no subject)

Gorbachev releases Sakharov

To Whom It May Concern,

Hark! how the bells
Sweet silver bells
All seem to say,
"Throw cares away."
Christmas is here
Bringing good cheer
To young and old
Meek and the bold

Ding, dong, ding, dong
That is their song
With joyful ring
E'ryone caroling
One seems to hear
Words of good good cheer
Sounds ev'rywhere
Filling the air
Oh how they pound,
Raising the loud,
O'er hill and dale,
Telling their tale,
Gaily they ring
And people sing
Songs of good cheer
Christmas is here
Merry, very merry, merry Christmas

On, on they send
On without end
Silly, their tone
To ev'ry home

Ding, dong, ding, dong
That now is song
With joyful ring.

Regards,
Lemony Snicket

(no subject)

Lincoln's State of the Union address

To Whom It May Concern,

There's something about paper that excites and enthralls humanity. It can be wrapped in a book, keeping an entire world or code hidden away, waiting for someone who isn't simply bored enough to pick it up and find its secret, or a blank sheet that becomes something more, like a drawing of a map that should never fall into the wrong hands, or the key to a code that someone's hidden in a book, or even a letter as droll and depressing as this one. It can be stuffed into a chest of drawers before it's lit on fire, or used to make a new tool, or even ripped into shreds and used to feed a starving, desperate author for a full day. 

It saddens this particular starving, desperate author that paper is seemingly no longer in use here in this bleak bubble. Instead, one is forced to punch buttons on a strange device savagely, as if he were a barbarian, and grunt under his breath with annoyance as he crouches in a smelly little shack behind some odd factory, forlornly realizing that the buttons are loud enough to hear on the outside before he runs for his next temporary haven, a word which here means "uncomfortable and perhaps smelly hiding place before the tapping of his keys is noticed again", and perhaps even bite on it sadly, wishing it at least reminded him of the taste of paper.

But it does not, dear Reader, and that may be the saddest thing of all.

Regards,
Lemony Snicket

(no subject)

Fermi's death

To Whom It May Concern,

When one thinks about the ways days seem to pass, they never really consider the science behind it all. Usually, when one thinks about the day, they may stop to consider that the sun comes up in the morning, yielding a series of beautiful colors (or horribly similar grays, if the viewer is colorblind). They may stop to consider that, once up, the sun generally moves to the other side of the sky, except in those rare cases when it simply moves around the general area of the sky with little to no reason. They may stop to consider that, eventually, the sun must go down, at the other end of the sky from whence it came, a term here meaning "wherever it decided to rise that morning". 

Rarely, they consider that the Earth is spinning at an unbelievably fast rate, and that it's spinning in a barely controlled circle around a gigantic fireball that could, at any second, stop existing, leaving us to hurtle, unchecked, through the universe, until presumably either finding a new sun or falling into a star or, perhaps, even eventually freezing over and becoming a comet for another larger planet in some unseen corner of the galaxy.

I, however, find it hard to believe that anyone who lives in this wet and dreary place ever considers any of those things, considering they have no way of telling where the Sun is, what time of day it is, or, even, what in the sea I could be talking about.

If that's the case, it seems I'm in a less friendly environment than I originally assumed, which is to say, I'm in no friendly environment at all.

Regards,
Lemony Snicket

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