Sometimes I feel like I'm kind of invading a sanctuary here, like it's this message board where shell-shocked people come to blow of some steam, and look for kindred souls that suffer the same pangs as they do, whatever they may be.
It didn't always have this atmosphere, not entirely, at least. Although I guess it doesn't entirely now, either. But I get to thinking, and I figure, well, I guess maybe that's all I'm doing here, too.
Not the search for kindred sufferers part, I already know my kindred, we're the ones spanning space and time. The blowing off steam part, though. Just another industrial machine, blowing off steam, just like you. Look the same from outside, dirty cold metal. Only difference is in the weight we all carry. My cargo is pretty lights.
Everyone's blowing off steam looks different, I think. Some are blue little puffs, some are thick black oily. Some do pipe rings, like gandalf.
I open my mouth, and the steam pours out in a clear rush. Like the far off steam release of a train whistle at midnight. Cutting through a bare forest in the dark. Somewhere between halloween and christmas
Both his words and manner of speech seemed at first totally unfamiliar to me, and yet somehow they stirred memories - as an actor might be stirred by the forgotten lines of some role he had played far away and long ago.