commute fiction: entry four:
(first fiction entry re-worked. study in science fiction)
Medijour morning, 15 cycles before suns cross: Wrote a new song. Two trillcycles writing drought ends with one vindictive emobrance. An achievement begotten of failure.
My failure: to please the dear ones of my art-mate. My cantankerous style disturbed them. This upset me greatly as I have struggled for three trillcycles to fit in. My life partner and I have been on this gritty cold planet a little over four trillcycles and still find our way amongst the natives inhospitable. Not all are the same. We have found sanctuary amongst the low people. But the mids, the ones who find themselves better than the lows yet who are not themselves high-ones, find us too strange for their liking. I felt my humanements expanding. I released emotions as a fungbread releases moldyrup. These I poured into song.
I must now thank the dear ones of my art-mate for bringing forth humanements who I have not been able to summon on my own. I have maintained a lowbeam level of liviliness through emo-games for a long time. It is not the same.