Greetings, reader, and welcome to the inaugural entry of my chronicles. At present, the volume contained herein is modest, for my energies have been devoted more to establishing the architecture of these pages than to filling any single one with abundance. The arrangement shall be such that the most recent entries ascend to the top, as you shall observe, and each account is accompanied by a corresponding image, capable of enlargement in but a single motion.

In due course, I anticipate affixing tags to the upper right of each entry, yet for now, this realm remains as it stands. The structure draws inspiration from the journal application crafted by Apple, where my initial compositions take form. Those entries deemed worthy shall be transcribed here once my other pages reach completion.

My devotion to this domain is considerable. Though the home page appeared to manifest in a single effort, its true creation spanned months of study and careful acquisition of the craft of code. I steward this domain upon both Neocities and NekoWeb, and at first, aligning all elements proved laborious, for I employ a code editor in preference to the native tools of these hosts. The JavaScript of the NekoWeb follow mechanism, for instance, is integrated directly into my domain, a design of my own choosing. Yet this preference has led to complications between the following mechanisms of NekoWeb and those of Neocities, requiring multiple revisions to ensure links—particularly those within “Concerning the Webmaster”—point to their proper destinations. Eventually, the navigation section shall be rendered as an iframe, lest omission of a single page throw the order into disarray.

For now, this suffices as the introduction to the chronicles. I confess there is little contained herein, yet more shall follow in due course.

- Corvus ︶꒦꒷♡꒷꒦︶

I neglected to document the robotics competition when it occurred, so I suppose I shall do so now, however belatedly. I cannot quite explain why I failed to write about it sooner, but the matter stands.

The event itself was, to my surprise, genuinely enjoyable — remarkably so. A diverse assortment of participants attended, including several individuals with pleasantly androgynous presentation. The objective of the day was straightforward: meet one’s temporary teammates, formulate a strategy, practice, and then proceed into the official round. In practice, most matches afforded us neither rehearsal nor adequate time for discussion. Irritating, but not catastrophic.

In one particular match, we approached the team we were scheduled to compete alongside, reviewed strategy, practiced briefly, and then moved toward the field. We signaled for them to join us… and they simply departed.

Curious.

Instead, a different team from the same school appeared in their stead — Team B rather than Team A, as there were three variations: A, B, and C. Everyone accepted this substitution without complaint, as Team A was already a minute late. I found the entire situation rather aggravating.

Conversely, we collaborated with another group later in the day who were genuinely delightful — younger by a year or two, unfailingly polite, and accompanied by an instructor who was both competent and kind. One boy among them was notably shy and quite endearing, and their team leader was exceptionally gracious.

That is all I have the energy to recount for now.

Reading: N/A
Listening: Music inspired by the Frutiger Aero aesthetic.
Mood: Quietly anticipating Christmas.
Occupation: Maintaining this domain.

I have come to the conclusion that idleness is a terrible thing. When my trades slow and the site rests, I find myself drifting into a kind of silence that feels unproductive at best, corrosive at worst. So, I’ve decided to study psychology in my quieter hours. I wish to better understand the minds of others—how they think, why they act, and how they fracture. It seems… efficient, to acquire both knowledge and empathy in the same pursuit. And perhaps, in doing so, I might find something useful for one of my dearest friends, who struggles more than I can ever truly say.

I have also been entertaining the thought of writing an autobiography—or perhaps producing a podcast. Unfortunately, I have no voice to lend it, and no actor would willingly take mine. My trades would likely have me shelved under fiction anyway. Still, I imagine it could be interesting: a coming-of-age of sorts, drawn from my own learning and the gradual realization of who I am. Something akin to a story I came across recently—a reflection on mortality and connection—or perhaps like The Puppets of Spelhorst, where each character bears their own burdens and ambitions, yet shares a single path. I think I would enjoy that.

As for the immediate future—my robotics competition is next Sunday. “Yay,” I say, as I perish internally. Tomorrow, there’s a field trip for the company I am pretending to work for, so perhaps I’ll return with something vaguely interesting to report. There’s also the chance I’ll be visiting my grandmother soon. The universe has not yet decided.

Reading: Children of Blood and Bone
Listening:
 • Infinity Frequencies — Safety, Waiting in Shadows, As Darkness Falls, The Void is a Prototype, Under the Mask, The Descent, Alternate Realities, The First Night, A Curse
 • The Caretaker — I Feel as if I Might Be Vanishing, Drifting Time Misplaced (F2)
 • Maebi — A Jester’s Cry, The Lobotomy, Trauma, Saudade, Desolation’s Embrace, Refuge
 • dreamcorp. — Your Life Flashing Before Your Eyes, Last Day to Live (Make It Count)
 • Overscorn — Nostalgic Breakdown, Analog Utopia
 • Other — 2008 Toyota Corolla by 2003 Toyota Corolla; Winter’s End by Joel Tumelty
Mood:Wonderfully hopeless
Occupation: Learning.

I would make a much longer name for this entry, but I fear it would only become a book of incoherence. I write and write and write, and yet whenever I put my thoughts into words such as these, they appear as nothing more than nonsense. I’ve been meaning to write—truly—but nothing ever seems to remain. I think I may rewrite Destiny, something I’ve been wanting to do for a very, very long time.

I returned from my brother’s home just yesterday, and it reminded me, with startling clarity, how much I never wish to have—nor adopt—children. The pain inflicted upon the birther’s body is insurmountable, and even if I were to adopt, the trouble those creatures cause is beyond comprehension. I’ve no idea how Callsign: Eclipse and Callsign: Vireo manage to endure Callsign: Sparrow endless crying without striking him upside the head.

Robotics club, as usual, was an unmitigated disaster. We were supposed to be testing the robot, but all my teammates accomplished was breaking the damned thing and moving it while I tried to fix it. I am so exhausted of them. I cannot spend a single minute in their presence without feeling as though I might collapse into tears—or worse, scream until my throat bleeds. Please, Callsign: Rustheap and Callsign: Deadweight, for the love of the gods, be silent.

And today—somehow—I managed to win something I never wanted to win, without even trying. Now I am condemned to study for something I never wished to be a part of. Thank you, Callsign: 3 and Callsign: 7. I love you both dearly, but forcing victory upon me was hardly the way to express it.

Reading: Children of Blood and Bone
Listening:
 • Infinity Frequencies — Safety, Waiting in Shadows, As Darkness Falls, The Void is a Prototype, Under the Mask, The Descent, Alternate Realities, The First Night, A Curse
 • The Caretaker — I Feel as if I Might Be Vanishing, Drifting Time Misplaced (F2)
 • Maebi — A Jester’s Cry, The Lobotomy, Trauma, Saudade, Desolation’s Embrace, Refuge
 • dreamcorp. — Your Life Flashing Before Your Eyes, Last Day to Live (Make It Count)
 • Overscorn — Nostalgic Breakdown, Analog Utopia
 • Other — 2008 Toyota Corolla by 2003 Toyota Corolla; Winter’s End by Joel Tumelty
Mood: Tired, but not.
Occupation: Destiny — hopefully.

There is little to say regarding my academic progress, other than that Biology continues to elude me. It seems I am better suited for creation than comprehension. Still, a curious thought struck me today—a concept for a story, in which the world of The Seventh Decimate is reimagined not through nations or armies, but through the warfare of atoms themselves. Metals, alkalis, noble gases—each a civilization in miniature, waging chemical wars in the unseen. It feels oddly promising.

On a more personal note, I have reason to believe that Callsign: Lattice has grown distant from me. It is of no great concern, of course; such things happen when paths begin to diverge. Callsign: Umbra remains steadfast, and our companionship endures. Perhaps that is enough. The prospect of relocating the XenoTrade office brings a welcome distraction. Russia, in its infinite bureaucracy, insists upon maintaining appearances—thus, I attend my “official” office post before commencing my true work with the extraterrestrial clientele. Still, I cannot help but wonder what sorts of people I might meet in this new place. Perhaps not lovers, but kindred spirits. The notion is strangely exciting.

Earlier, I spoke with Callsign: Fable, a coworker who has grown to resemble a son in spirit. We discussed what the world might become were electricity to vanish entirely. A strange, wistful conversation. It reminded me of my childhood—of Sputnik magazines, those colorful Russian periodicals that told of technology, art, and the cosmos. I found an archive of them recently, a whole repository of scans. The nostalgia was… grounding. Curiously, ever since that discussion, I have seen the word everywhere—Sputnik, Sprutik, Sprutnik. Even a robotics team we compete against bears the name. I cannot decide if it is coincidence or if the universe is playing games again.

On the subject of self-regulation, I experienced a small triumph today. While reading on the bus, something chaotic occurred outside, and my instinct was to rush, to devour the words before the moment was lost. Yet I caught myself. I told my mind—simply, quietly—“Calm down.” It worked. I am learning to live with less urgency, which is progress, even if part of me misses the thrill of panic.

I’ve been wanting to write something for my own amusement again. My problem lies in pacing—if nothing monumental happens within the first two chapters (and I do love a prologue), I lose all interest. Still, a new idea has taken shape around a character of mine named Larkspur—innocent in appearance, cruel in design. Perhaps I shall indulge it soon.

In lighter matters: for Halloween (yes, I do still observe such things), I intend to costume myself as Doctor Mors, one of my own creations. The attire is delightfully macabre.

In my robotics club today, Callsign: Delgado helped me fasten the final components of our machine. It is now complete, or near enough that we can begin the delicate process of refinement. Progress is always a quiet pleasure.

Socially, too, things have shifted. On Wednesday, 10/15, I joined Callsign: Wonder and Callsign: Vale in a game called Phasmophobia. Despite not understanding half of what was happening, I found the experience… unexpectedly enjoyable. There are plans to play again with Callsign: Vale, Callsign: Wonder, Callsign: Discovery, and myself at precisely 7:30. I look forward to it.

Reading: The Seventh Decimate
Listening: Wave to Earth
Mood: Peaceful
Occupation: Maintaining this domain, or at least pretending to.

- Corvus ︶꒦꒷♡꒷꒦︶

Writing eludes me. I sit before the empty page, and instead of words, I am met with static—nonsense, half-thoughts, the phantom of inspiration rather than its substance. It is maddening. Once, language poured forth with the precision of a blade, as it did when I composed Doctor Mors—each sentence sharp, each paragraph deliberate. Now, even the simplest line resists me. I reach for meaning, and it dissolves into mist.

In the meantime, I have resigned myself to smaller endeavors—poems, vignettes, fragments of thought that require less structure, less certainty. Perhaps even a podcast, though I have always found the act of narrating another’s diary rather tasteless. Still, the concept intrigues me: something akin to a Good Girl’s Guide to Murder, yet refracted through my own lens. Or perhaps the issue lies not in form, but in genre. I may have drowned myself in too much fantasy. Should I turn to realism, then? When I wrote Mors, I managed six chapters before the flame dimmed—yet it was the most alive I have ever felt while creating.

Lately, I have been preoccupied with the image of a lake. Still, shimmering, deceptively calm. I long to write of it—to give form to the quiet violence beneath its surface. Perhaps something reminiscent of Destruction 101, the only work I have ever completed that I do not wholly despise. It still requires its second act. Perhaps this lake will grant it to me.

In short: I cannot write. And so, for now, I return to XenoTrade—to the only constant that still hums with purpose. The work, at least, never fails me.

It has not been long since my last return, yet time feels stranger than ever.

Reading: Among the Burning Flowers
Listening: “Waltz on the Sun” — Alej
Mood: Frustrated, though quietly so. Melancholy lingers like smoke.

- Corvus ︶꒦꒷♡꒷꒦︶

Lately, I have found myself rushing—not to finish things, but simply to do them. To write now, to work on XenoTrade now, to move, to create, to exist in this endless sequence of now, now, now. It feels as though I have forgotten how to pause. The moment I slow, I fear the silence that follows. So I push forward, heedless, and call it progress.

I have been writing again, as I mentioned before. I began with a piece of heavy fantasy, though the sheer density of its world suffocated me—too many terms, too much structure, and not enough truth. I have since turned to another work, a quieter one titled Miracle Flower (or perhaps it remains untitled; I am still uncertain). It carries a more casual tone, though I suspect it will not endure. My best writing has always emerged from what cannot be explained—from what is sincere, imperfect, and instinctive.

I have also been considering a change in how I write—perhaps I will switch to folders rather than journals. Yet the rings are large, and they refuse to fit into the confines of my everyday satchel. Small inconveniences such as these seem to occupy an undue portion of my mind lately.

Two of my patrons—those I refer to as Three and Seven—have reached out in quiet ways. I have postponed my responses. I tell myself it is due to time, but perhaps it is fear. To speak to them is to open a door that, once unsealed, cannot easily be closed again.

And then there is the robotics club. My patience with it wanes with each passing day. I have carried the weight of the team alone, their mockery biting deeper than they know. It is strange, to be derided by those who rely on your labor. When they ask what a rubber shaft is, or an intake, or when they shrug and claim they “do not know how to code,” I feel something in me fracture. Our machine is due in twelve days, and yet I alone stand beneath its burden. I am tired—so very tired—of giving more than I receive.

More than anything, I wish to sleep. Just for a while. To stop chasing the now.

Reading: Among the Burning Flowers
Listening: melancholy.mp3
Mood: Tired beyond measure.

- Corvus ︶꒦꒷♡꒷꒦︶