TwIx27—Hey, yeah, so I understand your stance and possible unwillingness. But I think you'd be worth having on board. You always drop lovely, encouraging reviews and I'd really appreciate you considering my offer for the position. Think about it?

Sweetly Blissful—I think I could squeeze in a position you may appreciate. If you're interested, drop me a line (PM me or review) and I'll give you the details.

To the rest, if you want involvement I'm thinking of giving an opportunity. If you want a spotlight appearance on the Grand Opening day, give me the general ideas for your character. If you want a spot more permanent, let me know. I can give you a spot at janitor! (It's a joke, guys… unless it's not for you.)

Ms. Jane didn't understand.

She normally doesn't, I've come to realize. Not to say that she's an imbecile, nor is she ignorant of reality that drifts slowly around her.

But sometimes she just kinda breaks flow and plays queen of the outcasts. Did she not realize that the successful ones were the people who hung with the tide?

Probably not.

Then again, I must not have either because I was here, tripping, stumbling over the same mounds, fighting the same battle relentlessly with sand and dirt and dust and grime flittering through the air and making a nasty connection with my eye in the pursuit of hope and instilling it in others. I tried to pull off being the only level-headed person in this building, however sitting around with Jane in the lounge, a Styrofoam cup of coffee in hand, both of us bubbling over with laughter and careless stains on our jeans, it was near impossible to remain intact.

Carl was still bundled in her office, playing useless, probably prying around now that she had taken off wherever she goes midday, looking through every secret contained within those four walls now that she had given him free reign. He was nice enough but that didn't mean I had to trust him.

And that was what was clouding my mind as I tore into this story with bared fangs and a fresh hunger, renewed famishment pulsing through my veins. This was something worth having in any hall of fame, be it science or art—personal opinion of course having to plague your decision making skills. I digress.

The very first paragraph had my mind reeling with deep thoughts and sludge. This was really making the people who rushed into things stop and stare, think, understand, dissect. Hate—not the opposite of love?

How is it then, that the world's popular beliefs hold this to be the truth?

Indifference, I suppose I understood this logic. The line between hate and love must be thin if you're still emotionally connected with powerful, potent feelings. Therefore, indifference must be exactly what had been implied—or not truly implied, should I say. It was written out, black-and-white with little to no grey to read into. So maybe it wasn't implied… does it truly matter?

No. So anyways.

Luke was right in having taken up the very connected position of hate—he was not yet over what they had done, or initially not done.

I found myself utterly amazed at the depth of his understanding in how he was reacting and why, with no official doubts, though they must have existed if he were willing to drop a line about it over and over, forcing an understanding upon the recipient of his letter that was never sent… so I assume I must reassess the position that I've placed Percy in. His category wouldn't truly be as recipient, but merely the subject, subconsciously being lectured though not aware at all.

I'm really bad at containing my thoughts, or at least organizing before I allow them to process as conscious efforts to understand.

I was shuffling the sticky, bubblegum pink paper—Spiderthread Untruths— in my two hands restlessly as I slunk down the hall in my bare feet towards Jane's office where Carl the Abominable hid away. I was certain she would truly enjoy this work, though the author was very big on bragging—with every right to—so proudly displaying a novel of a review on the second chapter that gushed about the beauty of the piece. Jane had something for raw reality that, though some fangirls wouldn't understand or appreciate, others would value greatly. Carl probably had no such welcome for pieces of pure wonder.

I suppose I should explain the…ah, distaste for poor, pitiful Carl. That sot.

At the start of his career as the sweet cleaning boy—oh-so innocent and pure, all things angelic—little Carl decided it would be cute to ask me out on a date. He was nearly adorable, when he pulled his baseball cap from his clean cut and clutched it to his chest along with a bouquet and spark of hope that I would say yes. So I did. Not necessarily able to refuse one of the nice guys in the world, I told him when and where he could pick me up and wasn't hesitant on giving him details on where we would be going.

As a little girl I'd always had an obsession with the 'perfect date'.

Needless to say, it didn't turn out so pretty, I asked him to not ask me out for a second date. And the hopeful boy, stupid as he was, simply wouldn't quit on asking and apologizing over and over and over. I'm not heartless, I assure you, but every fiber of my being restrains me from holding any positive feelings towards the poor lad.

Oh well.

I flattened the sticky end down on the desk—she never cared for the nicer things in life—and was swiveling on my heel to head out when low-and-behold the vault lay open.

The vault rests on the wall directly behind her desk, just a simple safe that's about a perfect square squeezed into the plaster and paint wholeheartedly. No picture or mirror, no grotesque object making a sour and sickly attempt at covering it; it was simply there. And inside lay packets of paper, like scripts for plays, stacked orderly and pristinely, one on the other. Stories. Lengths varied, but value was all generally equal. Just another secret to be contained, along with the display cases that are over-zealous busboy stole a peak of. He undoubtedly couldn't just stop there. More secrets to uncover, lying beneath a steel plate.

I swung the door open just a little more and started sifting through, half expecting to find heaps of missing wonders or titles that had been shuffled about. By now, with all of the sudden interest at the fact that nothing had really been moved on the upper layers, my head was halfway hidden in the vault. And I stumbled upon a red velvet box.

Rectangle in shape.

A locket made of pure silver.

With the inscription Beth Doe.

And there stood Jane in the doorway, a confused Carl looming over her shoulder, both not looking too pleased by the incredibly convenient position they found me in.

Crap.

So, this one didn't turn out too great—especially considering the position I was writing (the assistant with a non-existent personality or identity!) but I'll let it slide this once.

People haven't been responding to my author notes, but I really wish you would so you could help me out with this project.