Something random that I cooked up, short, but as I say, meh.
6:30am
Got up at dawn to watch sunrise. According to a large and dusty book (there was too much encrusted dust to see the title), this is a stimulater for the inner eye. My inner eye does not, of course, need stimulating. My inner eye is the best inner eye around, so ha! But I, as a master of my craft, will go to any measures to better myself, and I frequently do so. Contrary to popular opinion, I do not enjoy sifting through bird crap. It smells really bad, and if it gets on my clothes, it's murder to scrub off. I would use my wand, but that means removing all the pretty things I stick on it, which takes so long I don't tend to bother. But the shawls I bought in India are not designed to be attacked with a cactus cloth, so sometimes there is the odd white stain on my clothes.
Well, no one get's close enough to smell it. And there is, by the way, a reason I have a Body Shop habit.
8:00am
Went down to breakfast and deduced from looking at my bacon that someone will meet a violent death in the near future, though it named no specifics.Naturally, I felt obliged to warn the Potter boy. It was my duty to society, my burden that I, as one of The Sight, must carry. To peer through the intricacies of time and decipher the intended paths, to salvage the Unintended, to examine the paths of the Fates and...
Well, if I didn't warn Harry Potter, who would?
Not that HP took any notice of my warning. His fabulous grades clearly didn't reflect much on his awe of The Great Unknown, as all he said was,
"THat's great, Professor. If I do meet a sudden and violent end I'll be sure to tell you.
What no-one ever realises, of course, is that THEY DON'T NEED TO TELL ME! I HAVE A GODDAM INNER EYE, PEOPLE!
Sorry, I had to get that off my chest. It isn't easy speaking in mystical tones 24/7.
I may or may not do it to cover up my jordi accent (speak in mystical tones, I mean). It's not easy being a Revered Seer when you come from Newcastle, you know.
Of course you don't know. Unlike yours truly, you don't have the Second Sight.
And of course you've got the disadvantage of being inanimate.
I feel bad for having a working pulse now, I really do.
Of course, dear diary, you USED to have a working pulse. Or at least, you were alive. If SOMEONE didn't insist on using DEAD TREES to write on, while SLOWLY DESTROYING OUR PLANET, then maybe you'd still be alive.
I must write a poem to express myself.
Ode to a Bit of Paper
Your leaves once green.
Pretty squirrels frolicking,
In your majestic boughs,
Until some git,
In a reflective jacket,
Came along,
And dug you up,
With big noisy ploughs.
One of my better pieces of work, I must say. My friend Rita down at the Prophet says I have the makings of greatness in the literary world. All I need is to become more antisocial and I'll have the author thing down to a pat. Obviously, I haven't seen her since. I was too busy being antisocial.
Love it? Hate it? Review and tell me if I should continue.