Today is yet another day and I feel pointless in my inane efforts to underutilize punctuation. But I will get over it. Today there is a more pressing matter to harass you with.
And here it is...complete with an abundance of punctuation to throw you off of your reading equilibrium.
Sometimes a quick glance over the shoulder reveals the past but today it has revealed something completely different. It. Revealed. A blur. And a click.
What was it?
Wrong question.
Who was it?
Better.
To be fair, I did not see much save all things just gone by. I merely sensed the presence of eyes upon me. And they follow. And they click.
Why?
Good question.
Accompanying this unseen presence, I keep hearing a single, plastic toy sounding click followed by a succession of smaller, quicker ticks. Not unlike the sound an unknown gadget makes and not even remotely resembling the sound of a salt dispenser...this does not necessarily rule Robert Lochaven out as a suspect, but it certainly shrouds his participation in the matter with a fair amount of doubt.
If it happens to be him, I'd rather he go about his own business. I no longer require the council of a bogus time traveler. Don't get me wrong. I do not deny that he travels through time, I just don't believe the information he offers is remotely credible.
What does he know about devastating, tragic house fires? He can not predict the future, he has said as much. For his prediction to be accurate, a devastating house fire had to have occurred in my past and it seems as though I'd remember something significant like that.
Alas, I do not. What does he know?
Alas, I do not. What does he know?
He also suggested that if I ever need to know the professional work history of virtually anyone, all I need to do is sit down in their house and enjoy a cup of coffee with them.
Bogus. What does he know?
Bogus. What does he know?
Unseen eyes, a mysterious noise and a fraudulent time traveler as a paper-thin suspect.
Although the lack of evidence somewhat damages the claim, today's Jazz Hands are being watched.
Day two-hundred and forty-seven complete.
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