Board Thread:Support Requests - Getting Technical/@comment-955565-20140926194945/@comment-3508553-20140926202314

Now he entertains another thought, one of giving something of himself, what ever shall the thought be that he gives? He gives so much — so little — and it does null and stakes out too utter nothing, and he shortens half himself to the plate, only in hopes to receive more than the little he has for that which is what he thinks he wants? The preconceived notion, already surfacing as he receives his payment. This much to go there, this much here, that much in this; He plans it out so, tidily. He puts the exhaustive check out to the post, the vehicle of his debt. He sits in that mechanism on Sunday, and it takes him to, in his faulty conscience, just another edifice. In the sanctuary where everything he has lies so precariously in his grey suited deception. It is there, that he hands in another check; just adequate as to not disturb his blundering budget? The pitiful monochrome mechanism takes him, to yet another building, that which he thinks is his home. Wandering about the home, each room tells of its grey dues; each room compels him to covet more, but can he really harbor more in this grey rendition of a Coldharbour? There it is, silence at last in his bed, his mind fallen desolate to its own waste. This time, it is as though everything in the room is dull, and as he sits up, he is not conscious of his physical figure withdrawn on the bed. How so is it that his short wraithlike figure, the murky twilight of his shadowy figure, how is it that it walks through the house? Every step he takes is painful; but he thinks it normal and grows accustomed to the hardship. He stretches out his hand to touch the light switch, yet in the gloom it is gone; he reaches to pull out a chair to sit, yet it is gone with the light switch.

Makes: Now he entertains another thought, one of giving something of himself, what ever shall the thought be that he gives? He gives so much — so little — and it does null and stakes out too utter nothing, and he shortens half himself to the plate, only in hopes to receive more than the little he has for that which is what he thinks he wants? The preconceived notion, already surfacing as he receives his payment. This much to go there, this much here, that much in this; He plans it out so, tidily. He puts the exhaustive check out to the post, the vehicle of his debt. He sits in that mechanism on Sunday, and it takes him to, in his faulty conscience, just another edifice. In the sanctuary where everything he has lies so precariously in his grey suited deception. It is there, that he hands in another check; just adequate as to not disturb his blundering budget? The pitiful monochrome mechanism takes him, to yet another building, that which he thinks is his home. Wandering about the home, each room tells of its grey dues; each room compels him to covet more, but can he really harbor more in this grey rendition of a Coldharbour? There it is, silence at last in his bed, his mind fallen desolate to its own waste. This time, it is as though everything in the room is dull, and as he sits up, he is not conscious of his physical figure withdrawn on the bed. How so is it that his short wraithlike figure, the murky twilight of his shadowy figure, how is it that it walks through the house? Every step he takes is painful; but he thinks it normal and grows accustomed to the hardship. He stretches out his hand to touch the light switch, yet in the gloom it is gone; he reaches to pull out a chair to sit, yet it is gone with the light switch.