And also Post #100.
So I've been feeling useless lately. One, I've got no kind of training. Of any kind. Two, I have no resources at my disposal; no weapons, no magic, no incredible intelligence (pretty good intelligence if I do say so myself, but it hasn't helped me so far), no
nothing. The best things I have at my disposal are my imagination and unfathomable, yet oft-temporary optimism. And the best way I can put that to use is through writing. And so far the best my writing has done is...nothing. Unless you count it coming to life. And this is where we come to today's topic: writing coming to life. Not my writing, or anyone's writing in particular, really. Now, I'm not very sure of a lot of things anymore, especially not after the events of the last few months, but I'm fairly certain that right now, sitting there, across the room from me, as I rest here typing this on the good Samaritan's air mattress, sitting there, 'pon the windowsill, sitting there, is a reptile with certain avian, feline, and strangest of all mammalian qualities. I am fairly certain that this reptile is a bit hungry. I am fairly certain that this reptile is injured. I am fairly certain that I am astonished at the presence of such a reptile, though ever since I was little I have maintained a firm belief in this kind of reptile. I am fairly certain that this reptile is, indeed, as pale as the clouds, with all their imitation-silver linings. Finally, I am fairly certain that I have no idea what to feed to a dragon.
*Joooooooooooooooce. What do I do?
