Snow Fortress "dream sequence"

Are dream sequences still popular? You know, the ones where people have dreams that are somehow related to the story. Well, I have them, because no matter how hard you want to believe otherwise, this might be <spoler alert> REAL.</spoiler alert>

A single toll woke Kitten up. He instinctively knew it was midnight. He was in his bed in the Capitol, dressed in fresh clothes that smelled of soap with a hint of perfume about it. And tobacco smoke.

He sat up. He was certain it was dark, yet he could see every minute detail of the room and the paintings within. Across the room, he could read the titles of the books. His throat felt raw for some reason. There was a dull pain in his spine, the same one he’d felt that time he reawakened after his near-death experience.

Or had he come closer than expected?

There was a knock on the window.

He got up and opened. Somehow it didn’t surprise him the least to see The Mayor clinging to a rusted downpipe.

“Thank you,” The Mayor said once safely inside. He didn’t look like he was about to comment on his unusual choice of entrance any more, so Kitten asked. “Oh,” The Mayor waved his hand in response, “there’s a burglar in my office at the moment. Didn’t want to disturb him.”

Kitten shook his head and ran his right hand through his hand. It felt strangely numb. “You’re a strange man,” he told The Mayor.

“I get told that a lot,” the man shrugged and produced his pipe. “I get asked a lot of questions, too,” he added in a suggestive voice.

Kitten gauged the bait tossed to him. “I fainted at the mine today,” he mused out loud.

“You did.”

“There was a hand in the Ice. A human hand.”

“There was.” A puff of smoke rose from The Mayor’s mouth as he spoke, in spite of the pipe not being lit.

“Did they excavate it?”

The Mayor pondered a bit. “Do you feel well enough for a short walk?”

“I do.”

The two looked at each other. Then The Mayor nodded and threw the window open again.

Kitten scowled. “You said walk, not jump or climb.”

The Mayor smiled mysteriously. “And here I was starting to think you might be on to me,” he said with unusual softness. He reached out to take Kitten by the hand. His palm was hot like an oven plate and the touch made Kitten flinch at first. But the fingers held him fast.

Before Kitten could say anything, a chill wind assaulted him. They were standing at the entrance to the Mouth shaft, all dark and deserted at the time. Being up and about at the hour was looked down upon by most people. Of course some workers had to maintain the fires at the Smelter, but they were a special sort of people shrouded in myth and legend.

He looked around. Everything seemed very real, if somewhat haunting. If it was a dream, it was the most vivid one he had ever experienced.

The Mayor let him go, thrust both hands into the pockets of his coat and started walking along the damaged rails.

Kitten followed after a short pause. “What are you?” he demanded once he caught up and matched his pace to The Mayor’s.

“Who knows,” The Mayor smirked. “I was cast out by my kind to live among humans. I am not one of you either.” His expression grew cold in an instant. “You might call me a cuckoo, but then again, I’m not a bird either.” He stopped suddenly and cocked his head at a disturbing angle. “Although I think I used to know how to fly.”

Kitten glared at him. It was definitely a dream. No use getting excited about it.

He wondered whether he was able to will himself to wake up.

“What’s the point of us being here?” he asked.

“Your discovery, isn’t it?” The Mayor’s eyes were fixed at him, while the rest of him seemed to slowly fade away in a direction that wasn’t really there. “I want to see that hand. That person. Those people in there.”

He said “see,” but a feeling that he’d meant a slightly different sensual verb reared its abhorrent head in Kitten’s mind. In his dream, he was annoyingly paranoid.

“Alas,” The Mayor went on, suddenly becoming very focused again, “I mustn’t be greedy.” He looked at his hand and clenched it. “Especially here,” he muttered to himself, so Kitten could barely hear.

“Let’s just get this over with,” Kitten said pointedly. He really wanted to wake up, have breakfast and go to work. Without waiting for a sign of approval, he stalked down the shaft.

It was dark. The shadows gobbled him up and he knew it, yet he could easily recognize the glowing rails in front of him. Who needed torches in a dream, anyway. Then the whispering started. Fading among the echoes at first, the voices were steadily becoming louder and clearer, telling him to turn back. To stop. To not doom them all.

Kitten hesitated for a moment. He turned his head to look at The Mayor behind him. The man was literally glowing. Pale white flames licked the backs of his hands and slithered up his coat. Some even cared to caress his face from time to time. As dreams went, this one was extraordinarily exotic.

“Is it here?” The Mayor asked calmly, and Kitten realised that yes, it was there. He looked at the dazzling white wall with the black shape of a human hand in the middle of it. He reached out to touch it as he had the day before, but The Mayor’s hand gently brushed his aside before his fingers touched the Ice.

“Allow me,” The Mayor hummed. He rested his flaming palm against the dark spot.

A high-pitched shriek pierced Kitten’s head. He clamped his hands over his ears, but the voice only grew louder. He tried screaming as well, but that too only seemed to empower the horrible sound.

A horrid smell assaulted his nostrils a moment later. Just after that, the wall in front of him exploded into pieces.

The cave grew dark. White Ice turned dark grey, the flames engulfing The Mayor were gone. Only his coat remained bright. His hand was resting against another. Kitten held his breath as he looked at the person previously encased in ice: she was beautiful, or perhaps more than that, far beyond mere words. A wet, light colored dress clung to a frail, motionless girl’s body hovering in midair, reaching out as if trying to grab a life that had undoubtedly been lost to her ages ago. Long hair clung to her pale skin. The empty gaze of her eyes clenched his heart and threatened to crush it.

“A real beauty, aren’t you?” The Mayor murmured, unbuttoning his coat. “Such vitality, even in death. The living here can barely compare.”

The voices stopped suddenly.

“What are you going to do with her?” Kitten asked, mostly to fill the silence which horrified him even more than the upcoming answer.

The Mayor turned to him. There was a wicked smile on his face, growing ever wider. In fact, no normal person’s mouth should have ever grown that wide. Or had that many teeth in it. “What am I going to do to her?” he asked, slowly unbuttoning his shirt.

A wave of sickness crashed over Kitten. The horrible thing he had imagined turned paled in comparison to what he saw underneath the washed-out fabric: a vertical maw stretched all the way from The Mayor’s throat to his abdomen. Rows upon rows of sharp fangs glistened with saliva that trickled down the thin lips.

“I am going to make her mine.”

Brain Dump 2: Snow Fortress

After a lifetime in darkness, he emerged into the light. Above an endless windswept, snowy plain, the sun was setting. It was cold and there wasn’t a single soul in sight.

It was cold.

It was lonely.

Dying.

“Hang in there.”

The fading sunlight was cold. It passed through him unhindered.

“You’re still -”

Something searing burst through his chest. He looked down in horror.

“- owing me a favor!”

Gentle light was warming his skin. He could immediately tell it wasn’t sunlight, though. It was just another sun lamp. Who was wasting valuable electricity on him, though? He tried to shield his eyes with his right arm, but it wouldn’t move. At least his left did. Before he fully opened his eyes though, the sound of a chair creaking nearby made him freeze. Slow, heavy footsteps plodded away from his bedside. A door was opened and clicked shut again. Silence resumed.

He took a deep breath to calm himself. He closed his eyes again so he could use his remaining functional arm to lever himself up. His head bumped into the sun lamp, but he barely felt it. His torso and back throbbed with dull pain.

He squinted and looked around. He was in a room crammed with old junk cleared from offices - desks, filing cabinets and such. His bed was actually another desk with an old mattress laid on it. Compared to what most people had, though, it was unimaginable luxury. He most certainly wasn’t in the hospital.

Wait, why would he be in the hospital?

He racked his brain for some details of what had happened before he’d ended up here, but it replied with a simple. “You don’t want to know. Trust me.” So he did.

Just as he was about to check the rest of his body, the door opened again. Two people stepped in, both tall men. The first wore a stained white coat and glasses that reflected the light. His rectangular face, permanently fixed in an amused grin and framed by unmaintained dark, if slightly grizzled, hair and stubble was well known to every Citizen: he was The Mayor. The slightly shorter, completely dark-clad figure behind him was bound to be Dog, then. The Mayor and his bodyguard were supposedly inseparable for reasons that were the main source of gossip in the CIty.

“What a swift recovery!” The Mayor exclaimed as he sat next to him. “I wish I were this young and full of life again. But alas -”

The Mayor’s voice was strangely familiar. He had met The Mayor before, back when the man was known as Medic. A lot of time had passed since then, but there was barely any change to The Mayor’s exterior or behavior.

The Mayor proceeded in what felt like a routine check up.

He relaxed. He trusted the man. The entire city did. If he told them all to hurl themselves down a mining shaft for the common good, they probably would. The Mayor’s bodyguard was a different matter altogether, though. The short man’s deep-sunken eyes were barely visible, but still peering at him with palpable contempt.

“What’s going on?” he brought himself to ask.

“You’ve had quite a blast last night, haven’t you?” The Mayor laughed and patted his right shoulder heartily. He couldn’t feel anything aside from the slight force it exert on the rest of his body. “It’s time you begin a new life young man.” The Mayor stopped laughing, though his ice-gray eyes did not. “And a new life means a new name.”

A new name? He had a name. It was just that he couldn’t recall it at the time. A blast it must had been.

“You’ve got eight lives left I bet. So much like a cat,” The Mayor went on, ruffling his hair. That he could feel. It creeped him out a little. “Or rather a kitten.” For the briefest moment, The Mayor’s smile seemed as icy and distant as the snow field from before. “Yes, why not,” The Mayor muttered as if to himself, “Kitten seems appropriate.”

“What?” Kitten bristled.

The Mayor put a finger on Kitten’s lips. “Shush,” he said softly. “Save your strength, little cat. When the anesthetic wears off, you will find yourself needing all seven lives to cling to your last one.” He stood up and nodded to Dog. The man took a couple of wobbly steps and collapsed into a nearby chair. “He will watch after you. I need to get back to the office now.”

Kitten contemplated calling after him as he walked away, but found it too embarrassing. After the door closed, he was left with the morose Dog and an uncaring sun lamp. There were no other exits in sight. The only window in the room was blinded.

Kitten lied back down. He tried to imagine lying in the sun, but a dark fear of immense pain-to-come was lurking in the back of his head. What had happened? He still couldn’t recall any of it. Or much of what had been before. He squinted into the light. A sun lamp was usually to be found in greenhouses where meager vegetables were grown to feed a meticulously culled crowd of hungry mouths. The Mayor had almost all electricity redirected to those “life factories.” Wasting the precious resource on anything besides vital supplies was bordering on criminal activity.

Such was the world.

Humanity had returned to living in a cave. A cave of Ice engulfing the City - a few hundred ruined buildings huddled around the central Capitol building where The Mayor resided. They were a completely isolated society. Most of the men were diggers, mining the Ice for water, scouring the debris for resources left behind by a long-forgotten civilization. Women tended to families and chores, with a few exceptions who worked in administration. Crime rate was practically zero. Convicts worked in the Ice Smelter, a nasty job if there ever was one. The capital punishment was to be exiled - taken to the surface where there was virtually no atmosphere and people burned in the blistering heat of the sun or froze to death at night before they could asphyxiate.

Kitten had been convicted once. His punishment was to clear snow off the solar panels on the surface in the early morning and late evening before temperatures had become lethal. He could remember how the sun up there felt. The lamp was nothing like it. Its warmth was gentle and soothing.

Kitten stirred. The pain he’d felt when getting up returned.

He had no family to wish to be by his side at that moment. He’d lost his parents before he even really got to knew them. His grandmother who raised him since always changed the subject when he asked. Only once did she tell him they had done something the old government hadn’t agreed with. After that they had sent her to a hospice, while he went to some boarding school. Reunited after a year, instead of the kind, cheerful person, he met the husk of an old woman, babbling incoherent nonsense to herself. The only phrase that he’d been able to make out was “release me,” so he did.

He’d had her put down by the Medic.

That had been his crime.

He grit his teeth as the pain grew stronger.

Had he gotten hurt up there? Or was what he recalled some distant past? He couldn’t know. He couldn’t concentrate.

Dog moved. He got up from his chair and walked slowly over to the makeshift bed. Kitten watched with growing discomfort as the pale face came close. He still couldn’t see his eyes, and then he realized the man had been wearing a clay mask all along. The lips didn’t move, but a hoarse whisper poured out nonetheless: “Don’t worry.” A raspy breath. “This room is soundproofed.”

The face drew away and was replaced with a black-gloved hand. Another appeared to take the glove off. It revealed a mess of desiccated flesh and jutting bone.

“One hundred years,” Dog said. His voice was weak, but the silence carried it solemnly. “I have reached my limit. I have passed it.” He removed his mask as well. Underneath it was a mostly bare skull with empty eye sockets. “I am handing it to you: my quest.” he leaned forward again, staggering slightly. “Find her.” He dropped to his knees and fell silent.

Kitten screamed.

Název nemající absolutně žádnou souvislost se zmrtvýchvstá...sakra

Tak jsem zběžně projel témata tohohle blogu a zjistil, že velká část článků se týká "zmrtvýchvstání" autora. Ono to není tak žhavé. Z mrtvých vstávám každé ráno do práce, takže, eh, pro ty méně informované souhrn novinek:

- Pracuji jako učitel M, F, IVT a ŠD*. *školní družina. Některé postřehy z blogu publikuje mé sofistikovanější já. Neže bych trpěl schisofrenií. Ze současného stavu školství obecně jsou to spíš deprese.

- Pořád vedu Magicový kroužek v DDM Sokolov. V pondělí se musím jít zeptat účetní jestli mi prakticky dvojí zaměstnání neudělá bordel v daňovém přiznání. Ať žije byrokracie a gympl, kde jsem se o ničem takovém nedozvěděl.

- Už zase nevím, kolik mám Magicových balíčků.

- Hraju D&D, pořád to samé dobrodružství co jsme začali asi rok po východu 4E. Postavy jsou lv 12 (nebo 13?) a já je pozvolna kopu k velkému strhujícímu finiši. Zítra hrajeme. Docela se těším.

- Hraju Aion. Důvod, proč mám čas psát na tento blog je ten, že až do soboty večer jsem v detox režimu, kdy hru nesmím zapnout, ani kdyby manželka sebevíc prosila. Manželka jí říkám proto, že dokud jsem nebyl 65, každý den mi říkala "level up" a já už pak začal odpovídat "yes honey." Zatím nám to klape dobře.

- Dokoukal jsem anime Un-Go které nebylo špatné, a teď jedu Noragami, které je takový xxxHOLiC s francouzštějším humorem. Uvidíme jestli to rozdýchám. Bohužel si říkám, že Zetsuen no Tempest nebylo jedinou známkou úpadku studia BONES. Jsem velmi smutná panda.

- Poslouchám darkwave/industrial/gothic a cojávím co ještě. Půlka hudby obsažené v kompu je Německá. Zbytek anglicky, asi 1 jap a jedni Kabáti.

- Čas trávím u kompu, v práci, na cestě do/z práce (nejčastěji kolmo teď) občas na zahradě, kde hrabu mech. Dalo by se říct idyla.

- Navzdory tomu co říká facebook a Aion, jsem volně dostupný na internetu i mimo něj :D

Superkrutohustopřísný tričko: návod

Jak vyrábím svá superhustokrutopřísná trička? Složitě, samozřejmě! Metoda potisku samotného je jednoduchá - většinou jednobarevný vzor je vyřezán z fólie a nažehlen. Chcete nejčastěji jemné linie, abyste neměli moc ploch "pogumovaných" (nevypadá to moc hezky a je to celkem nepříjemné). Ale jak vytvořit samotnou grafiku? Tady je konkrétní postup:

1) Začněme nějakým motivem, který jsme si vyvolili. Já se rozhodl udělat si tričko z bannerů v Tiamat Stronghold, takže tady výřez z printscreenu:

Obrázek by měl být docela velký, aby se s ním dobře pracovalo. Obecně platí "čím větší, tím lepší," ale zas to nepřehánějte, abyste se s tím nepatlali půl roku.

2) V nové vrstvě ve fotošoku obtáhneme motiv. Nemusí to být nijak extrémně přesné, důležitá je aspoň přibližná podoba. Nejvhodnější nástroje jsou štětec/pero. Vyhněte se ale rozmazaným okrajům.

3) Vypněte všechny vrstvy krom nově obtažené a uložte obrázek jako *.png. Ten importujte do Corelu a převeďte do křivek. Nebojte se přehnaných detailů (ikdyž až moc může být až na škodu). Nejlíp volte tolik detailu, aby byly vidět všechny důležité záhyby a především otvory, ale ne víc.

4) Plotter - přístroj který provádí vlastní výřez fólie - nemá rád příliš mnoho bodů. Je na čase křivky pročistit! Zrušte skupiny všech objektů, zvolte nástroj práce s křivkami a dejte se do práce. Asi tak 3/4 bodů na křivkách můžete prostě smazat bez vad na kráse, se zbytkem si musíte trochu pohrát, aby to tak nějak vypadalo.

^ příliš vysoké detaily

^ akorát

5) Po vyčištění všechno zase seskupte. Gratulace! Máte vektorovou grafiku, kterou umí vyřezat plotter. Navíc můžete dělat s její velikostí cokoli a vždycky dostanete dokonale ostrý obraz.

Věřte nevěřte

Žiju.
Není to slavná existence. Po objevu mé osoby na internetu 5. třídou jsem byl včera krom pracovních záležitostí zaměstnán zahlazováním stop po mé, hm, bouřlivé minulosti na internetu. Zda se za ní stydím? No, jak za kterou. Ale třídit to jsem líný, pročež cvak se vším dolů. Perličky byly zachráněny v Knize kosmu, a to je asi tak jediná věc které bych skutečně litoval.
Hlavním důvodem "wipu" jsou asi glosy. Patří do věcí které slušný učitel prostě nedělá, i když třeba zrovna dneska jsem koukal do slohovek 9. třídy a  odolával pokušení... I tady na blogu je pár věcí které možná nejsou úplně ono, ale zaprvé nevěřím, že by je někdo vyhledával z nějaké maniakální obsese a zadruhé bych se měl konečně přenést přes spoustu věcí a říct si, že na četbě podezřelých fantasy románů (haló, Ginn Hale) není nic divného.
Jsem učitel. Zatím nijak úžasný, ale hej, žádný učený z nebe nespadl. Kromě těch co cestují těmi špatnými letadly, hmm... Existuje aspoň jeden učený co spadl z nebe. To jsme teď brali na gymplu. Kromě těch mám ještě 5. a 7. třídu na všechno relevantní, a 9. na fyziku. Škola je to soukromá s malými třídami a zvláštními existencemi. Více okomentovaná, byť nepřímo, je, znova, na Knize kosmu (odkaz vpravo).
Zase hraju Aion, momentálně neaktivně protože jsem na max levelu a je to celkem otrava. Také jsem se oklikou vrátil ke Kingdom of Loathing. Šťastné univerzitní časy mě nepustí.
PhD studium jsem přerušil. Začínat učit je blázinec na kolečkách.
Pořád píšu, momentálně druhý (nebo třetí) pokus o matematické drama. Dokončil jsem dvojici předpříběhů k románu Alanation. Publikovatelné jsou samostatně. Také jsem se dal na občasné kreslení - dodávám blogu Mudrc komiks "Průměrný Planeswalker."
Toliko z mojí současné existence.

:)

wlkeRovy neospisy

Tož i po wipu pevného disku z prosince loňského roku se zachovaly nějaké ty fragmenty, plus byly vytvořeny texty nové, tentokrát na Google Drive, svatí jej chraňte.

Především díky googlu, byť tentokrát díky mailu, přežila moje trilogie "Mezi hrobem a zemí," která je takovým velmi morbidním "zrcadlem společnosti" jak se teď říká více románům než je snad záhodno. Sleduje osudy tří postav, které se zpravidla po vedlejší roli stanou hlavními. První z nich, z povídky "Smrtiny" je bezejmenný kluk s rodinnými problémy a velmi antisociální povahou, který si pomocí tajemné knihy osvojí umění nekromancie.

Člověk by řekl, že žít s jediným rodičem, který navíc odmítá uznat existenci svého potomka (či, jeho slovy, genetického omylu), musí mít na toto dítě velmi zničující účinky. Měl by pravdu. Na druhou stranu jsem se do té doby úspěšně udržel při životě a, podle testů ve víkendové příloze novin, zdravém rozumu, i za takových nezáviděníhodných okolností. A mluvě o životě, pravému reflektoru auta odzvonilo. V dutině světlometu se tající sníh mísil se střepy skla žárovek a několika kapkami tmavší tekutiny. Jiné známky násilí auto neneslo, jen z ledabyle zabouchnutého kufru vyčuhoval kus igelitové plachty, což znamenalo, že brzy bude hůř.

Postavou, která přebírá štafetu a nese jí do povídky "Z masa a kostí" je zombie jménem Michal, ex-narkoman a jediný žijící potomek nebezpečného šílence.


Byl to upír.
Pil čaj.
Očichal jsem tekutinu co mi nalil ze své termosky, a pak jí ochutnal. Opravdu čaj. Černý, se špetkou bergamotu. Vyjma toho však všechno sedělo: nepřirozeně dlouhé a ostré špičáky, uhrančivý pohled skrytý za brýlemi balancujícími na hraně mezi elegantními a „jogurtovými“ skly. Už jsem také věděl, odkud ho znám. Byl předposledním, kdo nás dva viděl na živu. Dokud jsme byli dva. A ten poslední skončil s hlavou na kaši kořeněnou olovem.

Už do prvního dílu jsem obsadil postavu prastarého upíra až fanaticky zlepšit svět. Upíra, který pracuje jako průvodčí ve vlaku. V druhém díle postupně nabíral na důležitosti, až dostal hlavní roli v poslední povídce "Až za hrob," kterou se uzavřel pomyslný kruh.


Bledé slunce se vydrápalo nad obzor. Jeho světlo se líně rozlilo ulicemi, a okny proniklo i do malého pekařského krámku s posezením, který ještě před chvilkou připomínal spíš řeznictví specializované na kanibalskou klientelu. S příchodem dne se nechtěné zboží začalo pozvolna měnit v uhel a následně prach, přestože se ukazatel termostatu ani nepohnul. Seděl jsem na prahu obchůdku a jen okrajově vnímal, jak se i moje kůže začíná připékat. Pak přes mě někdo přehodil kabát a pocit, který si nejlépe představí člověk upalovaný zaživa, ustoupil.
„Čaj?“ zeptal se unavený hlas.
„Ano, prosím.“
„Cukr?“
„Ne, díky.“

Mám tu postavu rád. Pokusil jsem se mu věnovat vlastní povídku, ale bohužel první verze byla smazána, druhá skončila v podobě oneshotu a třetí stojí za houby.

Českou tvorbu jsem prozatím zakončil povídkou Sněhopád volně navazující na mojí snow-sérii.

Začalo sněžit. Nic nového pod sluncem. Nekonečné střechy a ulice byly beztak pokryté metry šedivého ledu. A čas tu zamrznul stejně jako život. Mokré boty nechávaly hluboké šlápoty ve vrstvě prachu nahromadivšího se v opuštěném pokoji. Okna byla matná, parapety zaváté. Každý zvuk se rozléhal a odrážel ode zdí holých i v dobách, kdy tohle místo bylo obývané. Ale to bylo dávno.

Sněhopád mě přivedl do krajin postapokalyptické fantasy. Parafrázuje komunismus v ČSR do té míry, aby nebylo poznat, že vůbec nevím, o co šlo. Dotýká se také jiných citlivých sociálních témat, a umetl cestu anglicky psané superpovídce podnícené zejména knihami Lord of the White Hell (já vím, čtu strašný brak... a potom ho i píšu):

Tobias Eisner was a happy man. He took his antidepressants regularly and when those didn’t work, he curled up at the feet of his roommate’s bed and had him read to him until he fell asleep and forgot that he had wanted it to be forever. In his early twenties he had collected most academic titles that were to be gained in math, physics, economics, and, strangely enough, artistic and religious studies. He now taught at the university and worked day and night on his microscopes. He had no free time, as he couldn’t grasp how a scalar quantity could be free. Not even thinking in vectors helped much.

Daniel Jones was madly in love. Everyone knew. Some people pitied him, others didn’t give a damn, and others complained to his parents. Fortunately, they were the ones not giving a damn, but providing heaps of money instead. Dan was over thirty and still a master’s degree student. He lived at the lowest class dormitory on the campus just to share a room with his brilliant teacher who once used to be a colleague, but outshone the rest of his class in a matter of days, leaving early for more advanced courses. Although lazy and entirely unsure whether he was really suited for experimental physics, Daniel loved to bask in his mentor’s radiance and was glad the university just took his tuition and let him be.

Omniscientific, jak se tohle dílko jmenuje, bylo napsáno během několika málo dní, během kterých moje nálada prodělala skok hodný Knihy ztracených věcí. Celkem lehkovážná romance (!!!!) se najednou vrhla do tmy, jejímž středem tentokrát je zneužívání dětí. Bude nejspíš potřebovat ještě nějaké čištění, ale jinak si troufám říct, že je to jedno z mých nejlepších děl.

No a na čem pracuji teď? Udělejte si obrázek z následujícího textu:

Natural number Street was as busy as always. The houses at the low end were crowded with schoolchildren, while important-looking accountants were over in the Thousands, and politicians hung about Millions and even Billions. While the crowd, according to Mathematian principle of conduct, tended to grow thinner further up the hill, as the numbers they sought differed with a lesser gravity, there was a significant dent just a few paces from the first house.

13 looked out of the window and sighed. People sought her house so rarely. Most of them instead circumvented the place in a large arc. Most of the visitors she got were other numbers or variables. Right then, p, a variable denoting Prime numbers, an organization Thirteen was proud to be a member of, was over for tea.

Waaa~noce

Tak jsme přežili konec světa a máme tu Vánoce. Letos hodně jiné, protože je nás o jednoho míň. Začínám pobírat, co na nich mají dospělí, když si přece můžou dárky nakoupit sami. Jsou to, řekl bych, vzpomínky. Člověk - přesněji, já - si uvědomí, možná spíš než o vlastních narozeninách, že se věci mění, pořád dopředu, a nic už pořádně nejde zpátky.

Vánoce jsou význačné a vzpomínky na ně mají úplně jinou váhu než ty, které nedokážeme svázat k něčemu určitému. Na Vánoce si člověk vzpomene vždycky o Vánocích, protože o tom to tak trochu taky je. To ostatní si vybavíte většinou když si zrovna potřebujete vzpomenout na něco úplně jiného a často není čas se tím zabývat.

Vánoce. Vánoce. Co k nim tak patří. Samozřejmě šugroví. Na tom jsem se nějak výrazněji podílel snad až letos, jinak jsem zodpovídal hlavně za konzumaci. Stromek se vždycky kolem půlky prosince objevil na garáži, často nějaký zmetek co nikomu nechyběl. Žádný snad z našeho zadního dvorku, kde budoucí stromky touhle dobou dorostly už nějakých 6 metrů. Stojan byl tak malý, že se musel dát do krajáče a obložit závažími zabalenými do papíru. Pak se stužkami přivázal k žebřinám. Jednou byla na Vánoce špička zeravu co mi rostly od okny, než jsme je vykáceli kvůli oknům v obýváku. Nepouštěl jehličí, ale byl zadělaný od ptáků, co v něm hnízdili.

Už je to rok co jsme koukali z okna na zasněžené zbytky třešně co přerostla barák snad dvakrát. Rok co babi nechápala, co jsou Vánoce. Víc let co jsem jí vyrobil svojí snad první fotomontáž, na kterou jsem ještě teď docela pyšný (i když jsem měl víc dbát na to, aby mi seděly stíny).

Všechno se tak rychle mění, a myslím, že čím dál tím víc platí, že Vánoce jsou ten druh svátků, kdy by člověk neměl lítat ještě víc, páč ke všem dalším věcem musí ještě vymyslet a sehnat dárky a kdesi cosi. Dobře, jsem naměkko a sentimentální a nechci být sám, kdo si najednou spíš než mobil a štěně přeje, aby všechno bylo jako třeba deset let zpátky, kdy jsme se my tři aspoň u večeře přestali škorpit, v kuchyni hučely plechový kamna a já se zaobíral tím, jak mi ještě víc dávno dokázali za zády propašovat dárky. Hrál bych na klavír koledy z not starších než já, protože to k Vánocům prostě patří.

A teď mě omluvte, jdu brečet do jiný klávesnice.