the universe is singing

it's just that. it's so fucking important that the linguist bails on the expedition before the novel. the written word fails in area x. it becomes one of the most chilling modes of cosmic incomprehensibility in area x. the biologist's written account is a self-admitted failure. she is nameless. where lies the strangling fruit is all the more terrifying for the fact that it is in a recognizable language with an inscrutable meaning. the journals are ROTTING in the lighthouse, ink running and turning into decaying organic matter along with everything else. no one is named. the novel begins with a pointless semantic debate that everyone is fiercely invested in regarding the tower/tunnel nomenclature. no one has a name. they are instrumentalized to their professions. when she encounters the crawler, the biologist immediately compares it to an encounter with the "destroyer of worlds," a "more apt" name for the starfish than its scientific nomenclature.

why do u post so much

Some readers are deeply suspicious of historical fiction. They say that by its nature it’s misleading. But I argue that a reader knows the nature of the contract. When you choose a novel to tell you about the past, you are putting in brackets the historical accounts – which may or may not agree with each other – and actively requesting a subjective interpretation. You are not buying a replica, or even a faithful photographic reproduction – you are buying a painting with the brush strokes left in. To the historian, the reader says, “Take this document, object, person – tell me what it means.” To the novelist he says, “Now tell me what else it means.”

Both scenarios have a bedroom and kitchen for you. Food you like will be delivered.