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The gunslinger walked stolidly, not hurrying,
not loafing. A hide waterbag was slung around his middle like a
bloated sausage. It was almost full. He had progressed through the
khef over many years, and had reached the fifth level. At the
seventh or eighth, he would not have been thirsty; he could have
watched his own body dehydrate with clinical, detached attention,
watering its crevices and inner hollows only when his logic told him
it must be done. He was not seventh or eighth. He was fifth. So he
was thirsty, although he felt no particular urge to drink. In a vague
way, this all pleased him. It was romantic.
Stephen King, The Gunslinger
Use your higher functions and imagine that
something interesting has been writ here for your information and
enlightenment. Things are changing, but nothing changes. And
still... there are changes. Le roi est mort, vive le
roi. Until then, try to be seventh or eighth and watch with
analytical interest as things progress. Thank you.
Additionally, people who start reading your journal seem inclined to get one of their own after not too long a time. At least a dozen of my friends acquired a journal soon after I had mine, even if it was just to have an identity when offering comments. Its pretty darn cool. On LiveJournal, I go by the handle ZorkFox.
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