Smallhouse Log

Internetsless IX

Four hours is always the worst. In four hours, I will once more be graced by the gifts of Hermes, will hold in these same hands the strings of the aether, which I will tug as I wish, thither and hither, just so. Our lady of earthly knowledge will hear once more my pleas, my ones, my zeros, and will deliver unto me that which I desire: music videos, php tutorials, and webcomics.

And yet the light blinks red, mocking and taunting, withholding my once and future ping. And I can really only read so much Eco in an afternoon.

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