His methods were nothing short of meandering. Picking at the random bits left many times over. He enjoyed is tinkering, and often found his work, in his home. Yet still, torn from the cares of the many, who passed sublimely over these small things, his satisfaction was an impossibility!
“All that goes ignored in the world is surely endless!” he would comfort himself. .. Talk about job security..

And though his work was a true passion, the fruit was succinct in its opposite. Scorn reigned from the most base natures of Mortal beings, and his sincerest efforts to kill death by realizing her image, in the material world brought him only suffering.

With his dim antithesis to gold aura, he bundled his carrion, bid well to his fellows and started a ficly account- where he realized death has always been a fantasy, much like life- and eternity is in the remembering of beings, and all things past.

After procuring several viles of his own blood, he began to tinker with teaching it to type.

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