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November 27, 2003
the ink well quakes

Her new office was gigantic. It was so huge that some of the walls had to be covered with thick, textured foam, to somehow crush the sound-waves, to somehow prevent the echo from reaching cathedralesque proportions. The room looked a bit like a place of worship indeed, but did it really have to have the acoustics like one as well? Preferably not.
She liked it when her voice could be heard clearly by anybody who entered through the giant iron doors, hundreds of them daily, sometimes many more. Some were warned. Some were required to take a specific route over the tiles on the floor resembling an emotional map of the world, not one of those simplistic ones put together by primitives who would just apply rulers to coasts. Or to their thrones.
Her freshly arranged desk was uncluttered, stylish. There was a large display, some input devices, some paper... ink.
She had about 21 little ink bottles, some red, some blue, lined up in front of her, ready to be fired, thrown with deadly precision, at anyone, anyone who's sum of character flaws was too dangerous for the fragile world...
the not so dangerous ones, she could simply ignore... their petitions piling, collecting reddish dust in front of her office doors.
Though her office was miles above the vast and old city, a dove would sometimes find her window and just simply sit and stare amazed (I know, a staring dive is a truly rare sight). Pigeons would get the ink.
Once the bottle would hit the bird, they would both travel like a blueish pile of bricks, hitting the ground minutes later, turning the entire city into a shaking, swaying ship at sea.
Such earthquakes would occur every two weeks perhaps...
But one really does not know too much about any further detail... we might need to travel there, to find out ourselves... April?

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