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Dear Esther. I sometimes feel as if I’ve given birth to this island. Somewhere,
between the longitude and latitude a split opened up and it beached remotely here.
No matter how hard I correlate, it remains a singularity, an alpha point in my life that
refuses all hypothesis. I return each time leaving fresh markers that I hope, in the full
glare of my hopelessness, will have blossomed into fresh insight in the interim.

Returning to my car afterwards, hands still shaking and a head split open by the
impact. Goodbye to tearful aunts and traumatised uncles, goodbye to the
phenomenal, goodbye to the tangible, goodbye Wolverhampton, goodbye Sandford,
goodbye Cromer, goodbye Damascus. This cliff path is slippery in the dew; it is hard
to climb with such an infection. I must carve out the bad flesh and sling it from the
aerial. I must become infused with the very air.
There are headlights reflected in these retinas, too long in the tunnels of my island
without a bottom. The sea creatures have risen to the surface, but the gulls are not
here to carry them back to their nests. I have become fixed: open and staring, an eye
turned on itself. I have become an infected leg, whose tracking lines form a perfect
map of the junctions of the M5. I will take the exit at mid-thigh and plummet to my
Esther.
The stones in my stomach will weigh me down and ensure my descent is true and
straight. I will break through the fog of these godforsaken pills and achieve clarity. All
my functions are clogged, all my veins are choked. If my leg doesn’t rot off before I
reach the summit, it will be a miracle. There are twenty-one connections in the circuit
diagram of the anti-lock brakes, there are twenty-one species of gull inhabiting these
islands , it is twenty-one miles between the Sandford junction and the turn off for
home. All these things cannot, will not, be a co-incidence.

He was not drunk Esther, he was not drunk at all. He had not drunk with Donnelly or
spat Jacobson back at the sea; he had not careered across the lost shores and
terminal beaches of this nascent archipelago. He did not intend his bonnet to be
crumpled like a spent tissue by the impact. His windscreen was not star-studded all
over like a map of the heavens. His paintwork etched with circuit diagrams, strange
fish to call the gulls away. The phosphorescence of the skid marks lighting the M5 all
the way from Exeter to Damascus.
Blind with panic, deaf with the roar of the caged traffic, heart stopped on the road to
Damascus, Paul, sat at the roadside hunched up like a gull, like a bloody gull. As
useless and as doomed as a syphilitic cartographer, a dying goatherd, an infected
leg, a kidney stone blocking the traffic bound for Sandford and Exeter. He was not
drunk Esther, he was not drunk at all; all his roads and his tunnels and his paths led
inevitably to this moment of impact. This is not a recorded natural condition: he
should not be sat there with his chemicals and his circuit diagrams, he should not be
sat there at all.
I have dredged these waters for the bones of the hermit, for the traces of Donnelly,
for any sign of Jacobson’s flock, for the empty bottle that would incriminate him. I
have scoured this stretch of motorway twenty-one times attempting to recreate his
trajectory, the point when his heart stopped dead and all he saw was the moon over
the Sandford junction. He was not drunk Esther, he was not drunk at all, and it was
not his fault, it was the converging lines that doomed him. This is not a recorded
natural condition, the gulls do not fly so low over the motorway and cause him to
swerve. The paint scored away from his car in lines, like an infection, making directly
for the heart.

creepypasta

Actually no it is not.

Who the heck is Esther, Is it his pet hamster or something?

Wait, a Hamster, where the hell does that come from?

It comes out from the Mummy hamsters... You now know where the a hamster comes out of

On 02-24-2010 17:08 pm Evilwonders wrote:
It comes out from the Mummy hamsters... You now know where the a hamster comes out of

What? You stress big words way to much. It's like you're purposely using big words to make it look better, when actually, it just makes it confusing and not enjoying to read due to the fact that this is what is going through my mind when I'm reading it...

"I sometimes feel as if I’ve given birth to this island."

Lolwut

"Somewhere,
between the longitude and latitude a split opened up and it beached remotely here."

Okay, so "the longitude an latitude a split opened up"... Wait... How... But... What are you trying to get across here? That you are in a remote location?

"No matter how hard I correlate, it remains a singularity, an alpha point in my life that refuses all hypothesis."

No matter how hard I correlate... Erm, I'm pretty sure you're not using correlate right... A singularity is the quality of one kind, I think. Not sure. A starting point in my life that refuses all if-then statements?!@

I know, it sounds good, but you're not using words, um... Right. (Oh, and I had to look up correlate.)

Alex this was copypasta probably

Actually, this is neither my work, or Copy/creepypasta.

On 02-24-2010 23:08 pm pyro777 wrote:

On 02-24-2010 17:08 pm Evilwonders wrote:
It comes out from the Mummy hamsters... You now know where the a hamster comes out of

You're not funny.