"What are you all celebrating? We’re all going to die when the sun comes up! Don’t you get it? We’re all going to die!"
None of this was my idea, you should know. What else but my father could have made me become a plumber against my will? It’s always what the father wants in tales like this, isn’t it? The father sacrificing his son’s aspirations on the altar of his own legacy like Abraham offering Isaac up to slaughter.
Those with highly-developed technology are powerless to stop him, and those without technology are powerless anyway...
You’re willing to put up with a lot… until one day you don’t. You snap and say I’ve had enough already. You capitulate, you buy a newer model, so to speak. You’re not even really helping yourself when you do, it’s just so you can hopefully not notice the truth starting right at you: that the world was not built for you. Your home, your city, the people around you, everything, is your enemy.
I know if I had a bottle, pen and paper, if I had a chance to reach out to another soul, I would have used a little more common courtesy.
A pood, by the way, is a Russian unit of weight equal to 16 kg, and I don't have time to convert that into pounds because I'm too busy having a body that can kill a man with one punch.
Meanwhile, Lord Sean made the same donation to the oracles on this day as he did any other: A half bushel of ore, a skein of fine wool, a modest half-bushel of grain. Sean was an oddity among the lords of the island. Failing to develop his two small settlements, only occasionally building roads for what seemed to be the sport of it, he never failed to perform this curious tithe to the old gods each and every day. Once the lords grew impatient with him and asked him the reason behind this curious display of piety. I'm gaining points with the men upstairs, gaining points...