Silverstone seems to be an odd little city. A bit on the dark side, the population agrees with me though. I just bought picked up my new duster coat at a local mom and pop store and I have to say, quality workmanship, it even stood up to that nazi skeleton throwing his sword at it. Very nice. The city is a change from the desert, partially a welcome one but God I miss the sand. I only came here because the desert told me to, I swear I don't even know what I'm supposed to be doing here but at least sand's cheap to get. You should have seen the look on that muggers face when he went to stab me and his coat caught on fire, see I'd thrown a handful of sand at his shirt and just as he came to stab me I forced all of them to strike each other and the resulting friction just, whoosh. Too bad he only had enough on him to buy me a bottle of whiskey.
Sometimes I remember my days before Silverstone, before I became spirit bound to the arid motherland, before I accepted her as my mistress. My parents, my parents, I can’t even remember them. I don’t know anything about anything other than the desert, fuck I don’t even know how to write. This entire passage shouldn’t exist, I have no idea how to write my own name and all of a sudden I have a journal? The author’s such a prick. I never learned to write because I’ve spent nearly by entire life in the desert, it trained me for the world. I don’t even know why it chose me, me out of all the babies abandoned by their mothers in the desert (of which I hope there are only a few) Why me? No reason to sit here and be existential though is there? I’ve got the power to move sand and summon snakes and the guy living below my apartment works for a company that produces nightmare, to-ma-to to-mah-to.