Reset Canon MP198, MP258, MP276, MP496, MP558, MP568, dan MP648

Below are all the steps that must be done to reset canon MP198 Anda, MP258, MP276, MP496, MP558, MP568, and MP648 printer.

Follow these steps :

1 Turn off printer . and free USB cable printer from ur pc ..2. While printer OFF, press Start button printer . canon another model press Resume button.3. while press Stop button / continue button / cancel button, press and hold power.

4.while POWER LED green (light) , free Start / Stop button. ( still press POWER button).5. Press power button , press Start / Stop button to continue/ cancel twice then free power button. Wait till LCD printer display nol ( 0 ) number.6. Then, afer screen 0, pairs UDB cable printer to ur pc ,de ected a new device will be installed (normal)Reset Ink counter Printer

7 Download Service_tool to resset.:

This book is a substitute for ‘ferrari’

That was a joke when I promise it..*LoL*

I hope you enjoy it..^__^

My dearly ex-beloved,

I wonder if you know how much I’ve changed. I wonder if you, too, have changed. Do you remember when I last called you? It was fall, four years ago, I believe. Have you thought of me since? I imagine it would be difficult to have completely forgotten me, unless you somehow got rid of everything I ever gave you. Still, as someone with so many roots, someone who never left the one town you call your home, it must be hard to not think of me as you again travel the paths you and I had always walked through with our hands (and lives) intertwined.

Remember that one day just the two of us walked up and down Paix Road? Neither of us was carrying any schoolbooks on that foggy day, and we just kept walking back and forth on that obscure road. Can you still hear us laughing at the strangers who stared at us as they passed by? They must have thought we were crazy, which I suppose we were. Sometimes, I think I can still see your smile, charismatic and haunting. I wonder if you can still hear our voices echoing the few songs that we’d always sing together. Your laughter still rings in my ears on some days. I remember that, during our long walk (or was it merely pacing?) on Paix, when I finally got tired, you sensed it immediately and suggested we head over to my favorite tree. You always knew what to do, how to say what had to be said.

You took care of me the way an older brother would look after his sister, only our arguments and disagreements were always short-lived, few and far in between. They were always my fault, too, and you always knew how to make me realize this without ever really hurting me. You were always my guardian angel, and sometimes I imagine you still are.

There are some nights that I keep replaying over and over in my head, precious nights when you and I simply talked on and on for hours on end, never minding the huge turns in the course of our conversation. I still remember the way we used to cuddle up next to each other, the way you would hold my hands and gently plant your lips on them. I miss hearing your voice whisper pure randomness in my ears—the things you would say during ridiculously late hours of the night (or early hours of the morning, however you want to remember it).

I dreamt about you last night. It was so strange, and yet so comforting, seeing your face again, being in your arms again. I don’t often remember my dreams, and few of them are ever nearly as pleasant as this one. You remember our long conversation on dreams, right? I remember telling you that I never dream in words and details, that I merely dream in understandings. Well, last night was different. It was cold and dark and you asked me if I was hurt. I murmured, “I don’t know.” You then firmly held my hand and

pulled me up onto my feet, then brought me to a forest. Light peeked through the tops of the pine trees, and you simply said to me, “You are safe now.” I remember you walked around me, slipped your arms about my waist from behind, and then you leaned forward so that your head was right next to mine. You smelled of lavender, but actually brought me something else—a single rose (without thorns). We stood together in that position for a long while before you whispered, “I’m still here.” After that, the dream faded and I woke up.

I realized when I woke up that I didn’t even know why I ever pushed you away from me. You were always such an angel, and you only left me alone at my own insistence, my mistake. Do you remember why we ever split up? Do you ever regret just letting me go? I wonder if you’ve thought of me as much as I’ve thought of you over the past few years. I probably should have written this letter long ago. I don’t know what stopped me then, but I’m writing it now, and hoping that it’s not too late.

I still remember all those promises we made to each other, how I promised to let you take me to the beach on a warm summer day. We never got around to doing that. Do you remember my promise to let you drag me to the mall and make me dress up however you liked? I never fulfilled that promise to you either, and now that I imagine us together at a mall—you picking out every strange item of clothing you can find and both of us laughing at the odd array of items collected—I wish things had happened differently.

Maybe it’s too late to change all of that now, but I think we should at least try to fix us somehow. Maybe, many years from now, after rereading this letter a thousand times, you will respond and we will find each other again. I understand if you want nothing more to do with me. In fact, a part of me expects you to not reply (or am I simply telling myself this so I won’t feel disappointed when you actually don’t respond?). Still, I can imagine us, two months from now, together again, both of us fulfilling promises long-neglected. I miss you so much. I’m sorry it took so long to realize my mistake, and only come to fully understand it because of a dream. A silly dream is why I’m mailing this—do you believe that?

Anyway, I hope this letter has found you safe and doing well.

All the best, Me. You always knew, and I don't doubt you now.

From Past to Futureby ~Chaldemone

Dear you,

In the five years that it will take me to become you, I hope that you do not forget the first time I genuinely laughed. And I hope you don't forget the person who shared with you the one laugh you were never ashamed of (hopefully the first of more to come). You have a promise to keep—many promises actually. Only four of them really matter though, and I sincerely hope you keep them. This is one of them. Promise me you won't forget what it is to truly be happy.

The second promise I want you to keep is to change your name. I've always wanted to, and I've known the name I've wanted and still want for over three years now. I don't care how much it will cost, and I hope you don't forget that feeling. I'm only 19, and the determination I have now isn't nearly as strong as it used to be. Please, find that strength again, and carry it with you, always. You were always proud of your stubbornness—determination, the others called it.

Promise three: Meet Levi. He's my dearest friend, and probably yours too. It doesn't matter if you haven't spoken to him since I last spoke to him. He still loves you more than Tyler ever did, and I know you still remember the two years you spent crying over that boy. As soon as your name is changed, go find Levi (if you haven't already).

Finally, but not at all the least, promise me that you will chase after your dreams. I know you wing most plans—at least, I do. Perhaps you'll grow out of it, though I hope you won't. It's always a wondrous thing when you surprise yourself, and that's most often achieved by just winging everything. I only ask that you always remember where it is that you want to go, even if that destination changes.

There are things I sometimes wish you would remember, but then I remember how quickly time flies and how blurred my old memories are, and I realize that it doesn't matter what you remember. You will remember what matters, and if not, what you remember will matter—if only to you. I only hope that you learn to not cling onto painful memories as tightly as I do. Five years isn't much time to learn hard lessons, but I hope you make progress. I know you won't regret anything. It took me 18 years to learn to forgive myself, but I did it, and now it almost comes naturally. You won't have any regrets and I hope that never changes.

Anthropology of the Selfby ~Chaldemone

20.11.2007 That was close, Cayden. Really close. Between math class and my stupid middle college classes, I barely finished that drawing for T. I gave it to him after classes today, and he was pretty shocked when he opened the folder and first laid eyes on it. I'm pretty sure he likes it, but I feel bad for having neither applied fixative nor framed it. He gave me a hug and thanked me. Anyway. It's been a long day and I have homework to do. I'll talk to you later.

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(20.11.2008)E: We live in a society of consumers. Christmas is such an overrated holiday, and people don't realize how much garbage is created just because companies love to use complicated packaging.T: Well. That's why real presents are made by hand from scratch. You just can't go out to buy a meaningful gift, because it's not the same. E: True.D: Have a good weekend, and see you on Tuesday.Me: You too.

T: Thank you.Me: Be careful when you open it. You might want to do that over a garbage can.T: What? Why? What's in it?Me: You'll find out soon enough.

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20 November 2008Dearly beloved T, First and foremost, I wish you happy birthday. Amazing that I've known you for well over a year now. Time passes by so quickly; it seems I have to get ready for the future faster and faster. It won't be long 'til we have to face finals again, and soon after that, you'll be going off to Italy to be surrounded by a world of angels and "reminders of all that time can't touch…. In Italy, the sun is rising." You should be able to guess where the quote comes from, and even if you can't, you're still a great friend, one whom I'm glad to have gotten the chance to understand. If you don't remember, the gift I'm giving you now is one that I started working on in December last year. It's something that I give to very few people in my life and stands on its own as a symbol of how much someone has come to mean to me. I used to say that it was something I only give to people I'm willing to live for, but after all the events between my ex and me, it's not the same anymore. Or maybe it

is. Anyway, what I'm saying now by giving you this, is simply that you've helped me through many hard times and stood by me as I faced difficult decisions. As for the rest of this letter…since I want you to be able to joyously celebrate the day of your birth without my ruining it, I suggest you read the rest of this letter later—I don't think it's going to be a very happy one. When you asked me what I feared most, I didn't have an answer for you. Now, though, I think I know. What I fear most is being responsible—in any way, directly or indirectly—for the suffering of the people I care about. The more I care about someone, the greater my fear of harming him or her. It's selfish, I know, to protect the people I care about merely because I am afraid of being responsible for their injury. It's even more selfish when you realize that I consider the injury of my friends the injury of myself, since then the defending of my friends becomes the defending of myself. You're probably questioning me right now, wondering why I would ever even consider suicide if my greatest fear is harming the people most significant to me. The answer, while simple, is unimportant at the moment. Sometimes, though, I think that I hurt my friends so much in life that it would be better if I were to just pack my bags and leave, because whatever pain I cause my present friends by leaving will be far less than the pains I would give everyone by staying. I'm the one with constant social issues, the weak link in the chain, and no one should suffer for that but me. I suppose, by hurting the people who love me, I am slowly committing suicide in my own little world. I think these thoughts less and less often now, possibly because I've been living online more and more, where I help more often than hurt, where I've been helped more often than hurt. I'm not sure exactly how I hurt you, but I know I do, partially because you've told me explicitly and partially because your actions told me—your actions and reactions. I do, however, have guesses. You probably feel hurt whenever I compare you to my ex and tell you that you are like him. You also possibly feel hurt whenever I block you out of my life—intentionally or unintentionally. I probably don't hurt you, but rather simply frustrate you by telling you that you can't help, by my inactivity, when I walk away, when I push you away, or when I don't respond (not that there's much for me to respond to). I know you hate it when I compare you to characters of my favorite book, and at least get annoyed when I mention Apocalyptica's significance in my life. How much I really owe to this book and this band you have no idea, and I don't really know either. All I know is that you can never understand how I relate to them, though that's mainly because I could never explain it properly, because I can't force it into words that don't fit. I think, right now, we're both afraid of trusting each other. We've both been through rough experiences—independently and together, experiences that cause us to doubt one another right now. Maybe you're still optimistic and think everything will work out in the end, but I feel like our friendship died a long while ago, or at least hollowed. We don't trust each other anymore, not like we used to. You probably think I'm going to continue hurting you, which I might very well be doing, despite my efforts not to. I know we've both lashed out at one another in self-defense, and it seems to me that neither of us can get over it. I'm trying, T, I really am. It's what this whole letter is about—clearing up misunderstandings because you want(ed) to understand me. I feel like the unraveling of our friendship began with a miscommunication on my part, because I didn't want to hurt you with the truth, because I didn't trust you enough to let you understand. Now, I'm hoping that letting you understand will change the situation between us. I don't want our relationship to weaken like it has for A, K, my ex. You said something to me that night of late August that I've thought about numerous times since.

You asked me if maybe the reason I couldn't believe anyone telling me "I love you" was because I thought of myself as unlovable. Maybe it's true; maybe I do think that of myself; and maybe I actually am. And while that may be a small part of why I can't believe those three words, I think the main reason is simply because I think of love and the power of words very differently than you do. To me, love is something that doesn't need to be stated. If the love is real and actually is love, it's proven and stated through actions, not words. Those three words alone would only weaken the statement that should never have needed to be said. To say it aloud would be declaring that you couldn't say it through actions, that your actions don't make it self-evident that you truly love someone. If real love were truly as overwhelming as I believe it to be, then that could never be the case. Perhaps I simply believe love to be a stronger force than you think it to be (not that you doubt it could reach greater strengths); and so, while I believe that you mean what you say when you tell me you love me, I cannot believe that you actually do love me, at least not in the way that I define the word. Your question really made me wonder, though (and still does), in a different direction than you probably intended. Maybe I really am unlovable, but that's not the question. What I wonder now is why, and what I'm coming to realize (yet again) is that it's simply because I'm a failure of a friend. I'm not trustworthy, not loyal, not considerate of others, and I create more problems than I help solve. No one I know in real life trusts me enough to come ask me for help when they have issues to sort out because I only make lives worse. Countless people have called me a selfish, self-centered bitch, and let's face it. That's what I am. (No, I'm not looking for empathy, sympathy, pity, whatever else; I'm simply trying to explain my way of thinking so maybe, just maybe, you could better understand me). Heh, and having received more compliments on how I look than anything else, it only strengthens my belief that I'm worthless. Stupid compliments like that make me feel like I'm nothing but shit in a pretty bag which you feel obligated to say something nice about. You wanted to know why I hate getting complimented on how I look? Okay, here goes nothing. Firstly, it's the only compliment my ex would ever tell me on his own in person, so bad feelings naturally come with it. It makes me feel like people think of me as a stupid slut who needs to hear compliments on her looks to feel good in life. Great. I have inherited genes that mix well and produce a look that society approves of. That's bloody fantastic; it makes me feel like I have nothing more to offer than my physical attributes—qualities that erode as time passes. If I hear it often enough from someone, I often wonder if that person is only hanging around me to stare at me, if my relationship with said person is based (almost) completely on my superficial qualities. Having had people compliment my looks so many times, I wonder if that's really all that anyone cares about. Ironically, it makes me withdraw further into myself; I can't trust people who care so much about how I look as to feel a need to state it aloud. It's an insult to my intelligence (or a comment on the lack thereof) and a statement telling me that the speaker thinks I value others' opinions of my appearance. Really, it is not important and doesn't need to be said. It's the most common compliment girls get, and to me it always feels like a lie, maybe because I feel better off pretending it's a lie. When I assume it's a lie, I can think to myself that people are only saying that to be nice, because it's a common compliment that anyone can toss around randomly. I hate it when good friends say this, though, because they should know me better than to have to resort to superficial compliments. It's been said before and I'm sick of hearing it. Imagine giving a gift to someone and hearing them compliment nothing but how beautifully you wrapped it—a gift that took you hours (if not days) to mold and create, and all the recipient talks about is how lovely the wrapping is (when the

wrapping is simply recycled material that someone else put together for you). Ugh. I could go on for another few pages, but that's besides the point of this letter. I still remember that, on a rainy night last year, when you were driving me back to my place sometime in November (or maybe late October), you talked about how excited L was about driving your car. You made me promise that I would let you coerce me into doing the same someday, some sunny day not too far off in the future. You said we would go find a random parking lot that would be empty, and you made me seal the promise by gripping the pinky on your right hand with mine. Heh. You also told me not to tell any of your friends because they would be eager to make some dirty joke of it all. I also remember promising to tell you a lot of things that we haven't yet gotten around to, and (sadly) maybe never will. I know I still owe you a piggyback ride, not that you really want one. Well, not with me anyway. I wonder if you remember us walking around in pelting rain right outside the student center back when the building still existed. I used to hug people so much more often back then, you especially. That day I remember, I think it was late in the fall semester, because the Christmas decorations were already up. That's a happy memory. Bittersweet because I miss those times, but a good memory. I remember walking to your place on the day of my birthday, dropping off a gift from me to you, and I remember randomly showing up at your place sometime spring semester. I walked from Redwood City to your place right after volunteering and got slightly lost on the way. I remember that I brought fixative for you that day (to apply to the drawing I gave you exactly one year ago), that you offered me something to drink and told me that my body looked good; U2 was playing in the background as your mother was preparing a late brunch for you, or maybe now I'm mixing up several memories…. Remember eating at BJ's after that one movie night in February? I can still see your expression of frustration at not having an answer to a question you'd asked. It's a question not many people ask me, and I still recollect the exact wording: "How can I not hurt you?" I remember this clearly because it's something my ex has said to me, too. I don't choose to relive this moment very often, because every time I hear you say those words, my ex's voice echoes yours. The words don't change, and neither do the tones with which they are uttered, but the voices are different though they speak as one. Something else you often ask to no avail is, "How do I hurt you?" and my response is usually a quiet "I don't know." I'm sure, somewhere in my mind, I remember, but I don't want to, and therefore don't try to recall those memories. I don't like remembering how my friends hurt me; I don't even like remembering that they do hurt me. I'd rather go on pretending it never happened, pretending that I can actually choose good friends who don't ever damage me and don't want to, pretending that the people I care so deeply for actually enjoy my company and don't think of me as a stupid burden. Thing is, I can only believe all of this for so long. I still try, but it gets harder and harder as I realize that my "friends" don't often respond to emails, phone calls, handwritten letters, let alone contact me on their own. Slowly I start giving up, no longer seeing a point in even trying to keep a dead friendship look like it's still alive (assuming it ever lived to begin with). There are certain memories I can't discard, though, memories that I'm forced to relive over and over again. Sometimes it's because I keep on trying to relive good moments that occurred at the same time or place. Other times it's because persistent and curious "friends" who already know enough keep on bringing up the topic, hoping that I'll go into details. Then there are times where the same event occurs over and over again, only with different settings and sometimes, a different cast. I don't say

anything because I'm not supposed to admit pain or weakness, because it hurts me to tell a friend that he or she is hurting me. Bringing it up would be acknowledging it and forcing my friend to confront the issue—things that I don't want to do. I have to face it somehow, I know, but that doesn't mean I should make it obvious that I'm hurt to those who care for me. I don't want to be the burden that I always feel I am. It's part of why I've stopped calling you. The first thing you say almost every time I call nowadays is, "Can this wait?" I usually reply with, "Yeah, sure," regardless of why I called, because of course it can wait. We only have the terminations of our lives to limit the time we have to communicate with one another, and even that isn't definitive. With all that I write, if you had access to any of it, I could probably communicate to you even if I were dead. The message would be one-way and mostly obsolete, but still receivable and (for the most part) understandable. In a way, that's what this letter is—a collection of all the things I called you to talk about that waited for another day. Perhaps it's better this way. I'm probably wrong in bringing this up, and I apologize in advance, but I feel that this is necessary. Firstly, I must admit that I was wrong to say you are a lot like my ex. Whether or not you actually are is debatable, but that doesn't matter. All I know now is that you and he would apologize for the silliest reasons, that you almost never understood when your actions caused me pain, and, unlike M, when your actions hurt me more severely than ever before, that you and my ex sincerely apologized though you knew not the extent of the damage caused. In my ex's case, I didn't accept the apology because I was still trying to hide my shattered remains behind a wall of hate. In your case, I had simply given up and turned myself off, because I was still trying to not lose you. You've come to mean so much to me, T, which is why it hurts me so much to be in your presence nowadays, to sit down next to you yet feel that we're a million miles apart. It hurts to be able to interpret almost all of your actions as telling me that you no longer care about what happens between us. For a while, you wouldn't talk to me except to attack me, and now, I can actually name three points in my life at which you played the role of Rodge Epp Lang and I played the role of the stray dog, except there's still room to hope, at least in two of the three cases, that Epp didn't intend to kick the stray. However, to believe so would be to belittle your intelligence and powers of observation, and I find myself once again torn. I know that the strength of any relationship fluxes over time, but I don't think ours is one that could ever regain its former strength. While I'm pessimistic to doubt the possibility, like most pessimists, I hope that I'm wrong. To be completely straightforward with you, I see two options, both of which would be painful for me. The first is to let the distance between us grow, simply meet a lot less frequently and exchange much fewer words so as not to let ourselves destroy one another, basically what we're doing now. Within this path lies hope, though hope is most certainly not always the better option. The other choice I could make is to just cut you entirely out of my life. The difference between the two really doesn't seem that great to me. In either case, for extreme situations where one of us needs the other's help, I'm certain that there would be almost no hesitation for either of us. The main difference is that with the first option, we would still hurt each other (at least for a long while before I can readjust myself), while the chance of our friendship regaining its former strength is much stronger. Whereas, with the second option, there's no room for hope and no room for pain, just a "what if?" In either case, how often I think of you wouldn't differ, and nor would the changes in my opinion of you. I can't be completely sure, but,

in all likelihood, things will probably happen this way as they have for me in the past—with my ex where I cut it off completely, with A and K where I just let the distance grow. Something you probably misunderstand is the relationship between my ex and me. With the way I see love, I never truly loved him the way romantic partners love one another. I only saw him as a friend, a person whom I wanted to see happy, and someone who thought that his happiness lay in being with me under a category different from "just friends." I can't really see people that way, T, probably because I apply my romantic ideals to every friendship of significance to me. I think, though, I really do still love you. Perhaps I'm writing this to convince myself that I actually do care tremendously for you, but I think that the main reason I'm putting it blatantly in words is because I don't think you understood the message that all my actions and choices should have stated for me. You might have already noticed that I treat you quite differently than I do most people, but maybe you haven't. I can't tell, not with all the doubt between us and certainly not without you responding very frequently. Perhaps you want it that way, though. Maybe you always have. I want to make it clear that I'm not blaming you for anything. The failings of our friendship are my fault, because (as stated before) I don't know how to effectively communicate what I actually mean. I'm not a good friend, and any attempt to persuade me otherwise is a waste of time. I know my choices and actions as well as my reasoning for them better than anyone else possibly could (with, perhaps, the exception of Cayden). And maybe you were right to say that I'm afraid of commitment. While I seem perfectly capable of committing myself to my own plans, to abstract and impossible ideals, to trees and animals, I can't seem to bring myself to fully commit to what 'actually' matters—people. My explanation for this is simply that I cannot trust humans the way I trust dogs. People lie, betray, and judge others on appearances. Hell, I only trust myself out of necessity. I realize now that I could never bring myself to trust someone fully and thus never fully committed myself to any relationship—which includes the one I share with A as well as the one I share with you. Besides, to think that I could fit into your life, let alone hold any importance within it, was my mistake, not yours. You've clearly stated that you need space, and you've also made it clear that you had a very busy life even before I trespassed into it. You're almost constantly demanded by the people you care for, and seemingly more so when you want to be alone. You've said more than once to me that I'd always have a place in your heart, and I understand and believe that, but there's no room for me in your life. It's probably better that way anyhow. You don't need me and wouldn't turn to me for any sort of help, not without realizing first that no one from your long list of more trustworthy friends (pretty much every friend of yours) can help, in which case I probably would be useless as well. I'm just a burden, and it seems I always will be. You don't need me and you don't need my bothering you. Should you ever truly worry for me, you have pretty much all the means by which to contact me. If you worry for us, well, it doesn't really exist anymore; it's as invisible as I was, am, and always will be. I'm sorry for all the times I've pestered you, for being unable to tell you the complete truth, for being so irresponsible, demanding, whiny, and clingy. Heh. Remember the poem that we wrestled over in the studio at your place? I still have it—just like I've kept everything my ex ever gave me. I'm sorry I can't let go, and I'm sorry for once again bottling everything up only to spill it out in a letter. I'm sorry for not having walked with you between classes on certain days, for ignoring you, for not giving you more of a chance, for having been pissed at you but not told you, and most of all, for having given up so easily. The timing of this letter certainly doesn't help either, being so close to finals and your departure for

Italy. I don't expect forgiveness, though, and I'm not asking it of you. I'm merely expressing remorse, for all the stupid mistakes that I've made and, sadly, will most likely continue to make. I'm sorry. If you would like, and if you would still be around on the seventh of January next year, we could spend one last day together before you leave for Italy, before we go our separate ways, just the two of us. We absolutely must meet before you leave, though, because I need my beloved book back. I know I have another copy; I glance at it about twenty times everyday to make sure that it's still there, but it's not the same as the copy you have. I miss it so much, about as much as I miss Apocalyptica really. Of course, when set against an immortal version of the friendship we once had, neither Apocalyptica nor the book remotely compare. I was going through the conversations we had online, and realized that a part of why I prefer chatting online so much is that the words are there forever. I have almost every conversation saved, and it used to be a pleasure to go through them again, when our friendship had not yet withered significantly. Now, though, reading through any of the older ones can bring me to tears. I miss you, even when we're together. Now, all I can think to write is I'm sorry I failed you, and that I, like so many others, wish you the best of luck in all your endeavors. Make your dreams become reality.

With her sincerest apologies,Me.

Postscript: M'oubliez en mort, pas en vie.

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Dead-birth

Let water burn the sky and melt down the sun;may muffled screams cry, and ever onwards run.Please give me a sign so I'll know when I've gone,'cause you know that I'd lie as I am undoneand you know that I'll die just as it's begun.

Lyongarith | Monorhyme Quintain | 19.November.2009 | Unassigned

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Dear T, I hope you have a wonderful birthday this year. Just wanted to let you know what my new address is in case you wanted to write back, not that I'm expecting you to.

Love always, Me.

PS: Forgiveness is granted; redemption is earned.

Ocean Lifeby ~Chaldemone

Pounding persists. You live.Waves crash, gulls screech. Listento the music and seepure beauty. Can you feelexhilaration? Tasteexcitement? Let winds touch

you, shift fluids with touchalone. They howl and live, too. Salty sea airs tastedelightful here. Listento waves rolling and feelthe tender rhythm. See

serene silence, and seechaotic torments touchthe sea steadily. Feelsoft sprays splash above, livewaters wash you. Listento ocean murmurs. Taste

tranquility and tastetorture. No air. You see ceiling, surface, listen.Violent symphonies touchyour ears, cry, fight to live.No time to think or feel.

Breathe. Plunge. Love the rough feelof jagged waters. Tastequiet coldness and livein the moment. You seesurface, rise again. Touchyellow skies and listen,

wait, gently rock, listencloser. Iced winds now feel

slow, soft. Their gentle touchreminds you of home. Tastethe air again and seea dolphin dance. You live.

Listen closely and tastethe feel of peace. You see,touch—liquid comes alive.

Distortionby ~Chaldemone

the world’s blurringsounds distort, blend.am I dreaming?lights are moving;time seems to bendthe world’s blurringcolors smearingbut don't pretend.

am I dreamingthe cracks flowingjoin and don’t endthe world’s blurringwhite noise screamingwithout an end,am I dreaming?

outlines dancingflux, seem to mendthe world’s blurring.am I dreaming?

Just Talkingby ~Chaldemone

Drip. Drop. Drip. Drop.He lay quietly on his twin-sized bed, listening to the pelting rain outside and wishing he could go to sleep. The television in his room displayed jokes of various stand-up comedians whose names he didn’t know. The television was loud, but it simply served as white noise so that he could sleep. It wouldn’t work out that way tonight. Again. Drip, drop. Drip, drop. Winds blew harder against the single window in his room as the storm grew more intense. He droned out the laughter and the exaggerated voices and focused intently on the erratic pattern of the never-ending beating at the roof, the walls, the window. Why can’t I sleep?After a moment of stillness, a black cell phone on the desk across the room started vibrating, and the

chorus of Uniklubi’s “Luotisade”§ blasted forth. He turned off the TV, waited for his favorite line to end, then walked to the phone and noted that it was now 2:23 in the morning—in Chicago. It was twenty past midnight where the call was coming from. Only one person had this ring-tone, and Lewis lived in Seattle.Taylor picked up the phone. “Hey Lewis. What’s going on, man? You almost never call.”“Hey, hey! I am so glad you picked up. Sorry to disappoint you, but nothing’s going on. I just wanted to talk.”“Really? Half past midnight and you ‘just want to talk’ to someone who’s living two hours ahead of ya? You’ve gotta be kidding me.”“Oh, shit. I forgot about the time difference. My apologies, my apologies. I hope I didn’t wake you.”“Nah, it’s cool Lewie. So, what’s on your mind?”“Not much, actually. Oh, hey, is ‘Luotisade’ still your ring-tone for me?”“Yeah, I’ven’t changed it yet.”“Don’t.”“Yeah, yeah, I know. It’s your favorite song. So I guess not enough has changed, huh?”“It’s raining here, I’ll tell you that much.”“Yeah, it’s raining pretty hard here, too.”“Is that what’s keeping you awake, Taylor?”He chuckled. “Man, Lewis, that’s the first time someone’s called me by name in over a fortnight. These days, people just talk to you. They remember your face and not your name, but they memorize the names of celebrities they’ll never see in person. Funny world, ain’t it?”“Indeed.” He paused briefly and chuckled too. “Fortnight, first time I’ve heard that word in decades.”“Can’t be. You’ven’t lived that long yet.”“No, but I’ve never heard it said in a normal conversation either.”“That’s ‘cause we don’t talk much, not anymore anyway. What happened, Lewie?”“Nothing. It’s the rain, I’m telling you.”“What? Lewis, are you sure you’re all right?”“Eh, I can’t complain.”“Sure you can, you do it all the time. Well, ya used to.”“Yeah, I guess.”“So, honestly, how are you?”“I’m tired, Taylor, fucking bloody tired.”“Tired? Lewie, it’s after midnight. Go to sleep.”“I’m tired in a different sort of way.”Different sort of way? What the hell does he mean by that?“Taylor. I can’t.”“What do you mean you can’t?”“It’s the rain, I’m telling you.”What on earth is he talking about?“It’s the rain.”“Lewie, are you at least in bed? Have you actually tried to sleep yet?”“No, that wouldn’t help.”

A pause. “Yea, I guess I know what ya mean.”“I knew you’d understand. You always understand.”“Well, I understand the sleep part. The rain part’s fucking confusing. Lewie, you sound real bad. If something happened, I at least want to know that it did, even if you don’t tell me what ‘it’ is.”“No, man, nothing happened. I’ve just been thinking.”“You sound like you should be sleeping.”“You should be, too.”He forced a laugh at this, unsure of how to proceed. Never in their friendship had Lewis spoken like this. In fact, Lewis rarely talked much at all, especially not to him. They were childhood acquaintances who formed a strong friendship after meeting each other in the second grade, and their present friendship was maintained merely by random gift exchanges (by snail mail, no less) throughout the years. (Neither of them liked Christmases or birthdays much.)“Taylor, what do you think about the rain?”“It sounds nice.”“But you don’t want to go outside and get soaked?”“Hell no, man. It’s too cold for that. What kind of a question is that anyway? Do you want to go out to get soaked, Lewis?”“Not always, but it’s fun to do from time to time.”“Wow. You ever get pneumonia from that type of behavior?”“Not yet. I don’t go out for long, just long enough to get soaked before I reach the front steps of my house again.”“Wow, okay. What do you think of the rain?”“Too much. You ever wonder if the rain would be loud enough to muffle the sound of a gun going off?”“What?! Lewie, seriously, what the fuck is going on?”“Nothing. I’ve just been thinking.” A brief pause. “You ever wonder if the rain does something funny to the dead bodies in the cemetery? Coffins are supposed to be waterproof, and I think they usually are, but do you ever wonder if the little acid in the rain slowly corrodes coffins and frees the zombies? I wonder if we’d be able to hear them coming out of the ground in this downpour.”“Are you at the cemetery?!” Good God, he needs a distraction from his own mind.“No.”“Right. Okay. You want to know what I’ve been thinking, what I think about when it rains?”“Yes.”“I think the rain is just a symbol for us. Each one of us starts out as a drop of water in the rain clouds above, and all of us want to escape and get free, but when we finally do break free, we’re all going in the same fucking direction—down. Down we go, each one of us, in our attempt to get away from the others, but when we finally hit something, we just want to get back together again. We form puddles, streams. Rivers and lakes are just really big versions of puddles and streams, but the point is the same. We get back together and then all go up again. Evaporation is like this symbol for the after-life, and then we get stuck in the rain clouds again and repeat the process.”“So that’s what you think about.”“Fascinating, ain’t it?” The rhetorical question emanated with sarcasm.“Fascinating indeed. What do you think about when it snows?”

“How different is that from rain?”“Shouldn’t you be the one to answer that? You do live in Chicago, after all.”“It’s quieter, but it’s the same damn process.”“Ever think it means more because it’s white and fluffy?”“Lewie, you’re talking about snow like it’s a dog.”“So snow represents the lives of dogs.”“Uh, sure, man, whatever.”“Don’t hang up. Please.”“Of course not. I need to make sure you’re all right. Don’t want anything funny happening to you. Especially not if you start the process.”“Aww, doesn’t this conversation count as something funny?”“Ha, ha. No, not really. It’s fun, but not funny.”“Oh, cool. So I’m not boring you to death. Good, good. This means I get to pick your brain some more, right?”“Hahaha,” genuine laughter this time. “Shoot your questions and I’ll answer ‘em as best I can.”“Awesomeness.”“Craptilicious.”They both laughed, greatly enjoying the peculiar situation: two people who hadn’t spoken in years still shared a friendship stronger than most others enjoyed, and they were currently talking to each other early in the morning, split by time zones, as if they were sitting face to face in the same room. Their thought processes couldn’t be more different, but they knew each other well and were both in the same predicament: sheltered from the torrential rain, stuck somewhere between full-consciousness and sleep.

For Herby ~Chaldemone

A muffled cry escaped my lips as I sat up and opened my eyes to survey my surroundings. Where was I? How did I get here? Did it work? Calm down, I told myself, just calm down. Yet a part of me screamed out in protest: Why am I here?!

Then again, that was the question that brought me to do everything that I had done. The last thing I remembered was swimming. I had buried my clothes on the shore. Digging with my bare hands, feeling the soft damp grains of sand, breathing in the salty winds of the sea, I savored my last breaths. This was where I last saw her. It had been eighteen years since she completely disappeared. No one knew why, and to be honest, neither did I. Most people suspected that she had been kidnapped and murdered, but I knew better. She led a complicated life, one that she hated. She grew to hate living in society, especially one she felt she was trapped in. I couldn’t leave it then; there were too many people who cared for me, too much, I sometimes thought. Those connections have long since languished, though. I

let them die as I felt myself dying. I couldn't live without her.

I jumped and swam off into the sea after burying everything that I had brought with me. My hands, raw from digging into the sand, were now drawing hearts in the seawater as I breaststroked away from land. When I finally stopped swimming, I looked back at the shore, taking in the beauty of the sun setting behind the mountains and the trees that stood beyond the horrendous cliffs of rocks that jutted out in protest against the crashing waves. That was the last time I ever saw the land I once called my home.

After my breathing steadied, I swam out a bit farther and dove into the depths of the sea. I moved with all the energy I had left, mustering all the force I could to expend it in every kick of the leg. My lungs burned for air as I dove on downwards, towards the darkness, but my mind’s and my heart's cries for freedom and escape were still stronger. I continued to swim against the laws of physics; through all the agony, I plowed onwards into the shadowy unknown.

Yet here I was, sitting up with my eyes open on top of a rather large and comfortable bed that was in the corner of a room. The blankets covering me were of a dark blue shade and stuffed with down. I lifted my head up from a blue pillow, one of a lighter hue, and looked around the room. A simple chair to my right was tucked into a standard wooden desk with six drawers. In the corner of the desk, a tall green candle flickered so that light shone into every crevice of the room. Other than the candle and the matches beside the candle, though, there was nothing on the table. As I gazed directly ahead, my eyes explored bookshelves taller than I, one next to the other, all flat against the stony gray walls. In the corner opposite me stood what appeared to be a white cabinet. Other than those bare furnishings, though, the room was barren. There were no windows but skylights in their stead.

I stood up to examine the cabinet more closely; only then did I notice that my clothes, the ones I had spent so much time to bury in the sand, were now clean and sitting next to my bed, on the floor. On top of them were sandals, within which were standard white socks. I quickly dressed myself before walking briskly to the cabinet. Eagerly opening its door, I found myself pleasantly amazed as a blast of fragrant cool air blew gently into my face. Inside the top level of the cabinet were foods and drinks of various colors and sizes, ranging from fruit salads to chocolate milk shakes. In the lower level were forks, knives, cups, and other utensils.

Suddenly feeling hungry, I rummaged though the contents of the cabinet-like refrigerator and took out a wonderfully prepared potato salad, some large dark red strawberries, and the chocolate milk shake I saw earlier along with a lovely silver fork (on which was etched a budding rose) and a simple black straw. After setting everything onto the wooden table, I ate gratefully and voraciously. Yet my curiosity couldn't wait; I opened the table’s drawers and examined its contents. During the course of my meal, I found a pen, pencils of various shades, an eraser, the basic paints, paint brushes, various papers, a black journal bound by leather, an assortment of objects that only the most eccentric people would own, and one of my old yearbooks. Come to think of it, I lost this yearbook a long time ago; it's been over eighteen years since I last saw it. I spent a while in reminiscence, perusing my old book, rereading what my friends had written to me, looking at pictures of everyone and remembering how much everyone had

changed.

I spent what felt like the next few days of my life like this, only every now and then I would wake up to find warm food such as a bowl of spaghetti or a plate of teriyaki chicken apparently fresh from the grill. There was nothing by which I could note the time. Light poured in constantly from the skylights, always with the same moderate intensity. I slept when I grew tired and woke up to read, draw, and write whenever I wanted to. The bathroom was mine to use. The food was mine to eat. Nothing ever seemed to spoil, and despite how much I ate, the refrigerator seemed to always contain the same amount of food. I was trapped in this room, its prisoner, but I was free. I was freed from taxes, bills, a job, and more. I had been freed from the need to worry about the future, the nonexistent future. The books available for my reading were on such varying subjects, it would be nearly impossible for me to tire of reading.

But all I wanted was to be with her. I grew miserable; I spent more time lying in the bed, just staring at the ceiling, than using any of what had been given to me. I began to walk along the walls, pushing at various stones, pulling at random books, trying to find a way out, some secret passageway that remained unknown to me. Was I so desperate as to talk to myself? No, I wasn't. Well, maybe just a bit. Yes, I was. I don't know. Where was my escape? What did I have to do to see her again? I paced along the walls for who knows how long. At long last, I gave up. I just stood at the center of my room and stared at one of the bookshelves. I stared long and hard at the books on it. A shelf of well-known fiction, it was. Just as I was reading off authors' names, the shelf turned to reveal a tunnel behind it. I ran for it. I ran into the passageway, hands tracing the cold walls of stone surrounding it, heart pumping in fear, mind hoping for an exit at the end of the tunnel, praying that it was there. I regretted not having brought a candle. The channel I now slowly walked through was getting darker and darker, the path harder to see. I nearly tripped on a rock, but regained my balance before falling facedown into the damp earth.

At long last, I saw a light at the end of the tunnel. I ran into it with all the speed I could muster and embraced the blinding light.

Orpheusby ~Chaldemone

Your tale is one of mourning cries. You sing a lovely melody. Withdrawing tears from others’ eyes,you pierce their hearts and set them free.

Those haunting tunes flow from your lyre

and bring back awful memories.And all but one of your desires,you bring each to reality.

A love of yours, too soon she dies.You drown in seas of miseryand march to death with no disguise.For her you sing lamentingly.

Your plea could Hades not deny,and though from death you set her free,too soon you glanced and now you crythose songs of painful memories.

Dreamsby ~Chaldemone

Fantasies of the nightdon't stay 'til sunrise,not often. They take flight,fantasies of the night,ere stars no longer light.Too much time's spent on lies--fantasies of the nightdon't stay 'til sunrise.