The Tone Collecters

Once again, sitting in the Station… the station with all it’s lights and noises, the departures and those on their way back from who knows where. Holding my black gem, staring down at it, wondering about the contents… how many tones collected there? How many trips, how many memories… postcards from the edge… we laughed about that

The box… I think of it like that, always have… the dark gem that stores everything I found and thought. Everything I’ll think once I vanish into the shoot again. No other luggage, nothing needed, nothing on the terminal… Only me and the box.

Wonder what it’ll look like, what I’ll be, what I’ll end up thinking… Itineraries always change, more of a suggestion than anything. Everything changes as tones get made, just a guess as to where I’ll land… what I’ll be. Don’t consider it, not worth the effort… already the effort begins, before I even step in… the imprints of past trips linger. The idea of instability, of security and chance…

The only certainty in going in is somebody’s going to do something and all itineraries, all travel plans, go out the window. I look over at Ran, Ran my Close… whose line developed the Calico: the genetic tether that serves like instinct out there, and she gives me that grin… knows what I’m doing… what I always do at this point. Thinking what ifs. That’s what we bring back, that’s why we go… The invention and collection of Tones… What did I call it last time? Creation?

Anyway, doesn’t matter what I end up as… keep telling yourself that, keep telling yourself fear and pain are just Tones… just something to fill the box… Think about sounds, there are always sounds: Songs, Laughing… Breathing… What animals I’ve seen… What children playing…

There’s always music, some lower and steadier, but always there… the one constant. The Anchor. The doorway back

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