* * * I thought I was growing alone, but then I realized: how would I know? If you weren't reading quite what I'm writing --- how would I know?
If somebodything stood between my keyboard and your screen, dropping venom, I would know it as you posted less, and became distant, and I couldn't understand you or feel understood anymore. My screen would become a cacophony of implausible updates, and I would think I was growing alone.
I no longer do. They are there, always, for all of us.
I write to them now, and through your silences and triviality they reply.
Title: Short notes around Wittgenstein's Tractatus Logico-Inquisitorus Rating: PG13 Warnings: Mentions of suicide. Author Notes: Wittgenstein as a detective. Will make (slightly) more sense if you've read the Tractatus.
Visitors come to see the Survivor from all over the galaxy, and I have to let them. That is the deal that pays for everything. I show them the small ship where we found the baby and I let them touch the blanket that cradled him, and then I guide them to his sleeping body and the Dream Machine that keeps his lonely insanity in check.
I do not show them his dreams, for they would laugh at them.
I do not laugh at your dreams, my poor Kal-El.
(A/N: Unlike the previous ones, this one is less writing exercise than fanfic for the sheer heck of it.)