Tatiana Azundris

I remember Spock was there. That is the only thing I know for certain. He was in bed with a Vulcan woman. He was complaining that the weapon, my choice, was too large. I had valued ferocity over concealment, the job of eliminating the mark over that of getting there undetected. I did not argue. I left, and procured a different weapon. I disguised myself and recorded our statement on a public communicator. I went to my lover. I do not remember who he was, but I do remember kissing him, telling him I loved him, surprising him with the substance that would knock him out and erase his memory. I remember taking the 'bracelets' off my upper arms where they had been resting for the last hour, learning my DNA. I remember leaving one on him, and the other on the small heap of items that could have incriminated me and that I left under his bed. The nanobots contained within would remove all traces of my DNA, then erase their own memory of my sequence. It would be impossible to find out later whether this was something somebody else did, or something he himself had done to throw the investigation off his track. Like it is impossible now to say for certain whether he ever was part of our cell, or just the fall guy. Even if he was part of our cell, can you really punish him for something he does not even remember?
I do not remember whether he ever knew about our plan. I do not remember loving him. I do not remember whether I ever did.
That is all I have to say.

I die here. When will I ever learn not to go to bed before midnight?? Rape, murder, it's just a dream away. Of course this time, I only got stabbed, so maybe I shouldn't complain, it's far preferable to that crazy rapist guy holds me hostage in my own flat shite, but since it was some confused modernised World War II setting and the guy was one of ours and I was trying to help him, I'm still miffed. Now I can see half a dozen reasons at least why WWII Germans would not have liked me, but my own people? I want my money back. More interestingly, I started up with my stomach clenching in response to the dream. That isn't the same as actually getting stabbed of course, but given it was in the exact same place I was dream-stabbed, it was still weird, and delayed the entire it's almost OK, I'm awake bit. Given that my dreams are usually a bit like a silent movie inasmuch they tend to come without pain, I guess I get to make another entry to the wonky list (dream in foreign language, dream in black and white, dream with subtitles, dream with pain, …). Oh, and of course I was bloody freezing when I woke up, too, as I'd kicked away the sheets somewhere along the line, and it had cooled down significantly overnight (while being really hot for an entire week beforehand). And starting up a 6am is the suck if you were hoping to stay up really late the next night, so this has potential to ruin my morning and my night today. Oh, and the middle bit will be my parents visiting, so there. Morituri te salutant.

Diese Woche war Mist.
Ich habe nur Schrott geträumt, und Wachsein ist auch nicht viel besser.

Iso klagt über Headcrash auf der Arbeit und SuSE-Schrott -- ich kann das sogar gleichzeitig: dank kaputten RAMs ist das Upgrade ist in die Wand gefahren und hat die wichtigsten Partitionen gleich mitgenommen. Nach zwei Tagen mit dem Sieb in der Hand hab ich jetzt die meisten Bit-Nuggets aus dem Datenstrom gefiltert. Das war ja ein Mist. Hätte ich geahnt wie lange das dauern würde -- ich hätte wohl das Backup eingespielt. (Oder auch nicht.)

Heute habe ich wieder totalen Scheiß geträumt. Das kann man als Start in den Tag kaum unterbieten, oder? Falsch. Es kann nämlich zusätzlich der Henkel unmotiviert von der Teetasse abbrechen, und weil man Mangels Tee nicht wach ist, löscht man das falsche Verzeichnis. Der Server der die Originale haben sollte, ist offline, und aus dem Fön schlagen Flammen. Was macht man an solchen Tagen? Den Blues singen? Einen Beschwerdebrief an Gott schreiben?