|Terminus: Ellery Island (Bartram, another day).|
Hmm. As accurate as that may be in a strictly geological sense, my meager joke seems to me disrespectful of the endeavors of my family and our actual support to facilitate the escape and liberation of fellow enslaved humans. While I do like a petty witticism now and then, it should not be the dispensation of one class to mock the plight and suffering of those in a disadvantaged class. It is neither brave nor clever—and certainly it is in no sense noble—to capitalize upon the misery of others for one's idle amusement. Mock yourself, poke holes in those above you, but do not admire yourself for ridiculing human tragedy.
To bring the reader up to date, should one be so inclined to hear a whole lot of nothing, I have been laid up a fortnight while my sorely tried body manages its miracle of healing and regeneration. The diligent reader will no doubt be familiar with my misgivings against wanton advances in technology. I'll assume this is true, for the sake of my little observation now, though my book sales would suggest a less-than-rapt audience.
|Kilometers and kilometers of this. Occasionally lava pools.|
Well, this is not (I hope) the first time I have had to retract an earlier assertion in light of newer and better information. Please strike from the record any complaints I may have lodged about rail service, for although it may serve me in the future to ship minecarts heavily laden with ore and gems back to my ostensible headquarters, there was no short-cut in labor to manually construct several kilometers of railway entirely by hand, from smelting the ore and forging it into rails, to laying the track and installing the power grids to propel the carts independently for the entire length, including stops at various depots, from the villagers' former cabin to my point of origin.
|Days and nights have passed exactly here, no further.|
I sigh a lot. The open wounds on my hands have healed into dense calluses; between that and having firmly grasped a mattock, with the unending series of jarring shocks that it produced, my poor fingers are ill-suited to delicately work a quill. This entry has taken me over an hour to manage, interspersed with awful cramps and nervous twitching.
|The crops and livestock have been perfectly fine, unattended.|
There is so much work I need to do on myself, I know this now. Yet much of that work will be in examining what, exactly, is wrong with me that the world ejected me to this purgatory. That is how I see it, and there is no better theory to contradict me (save that sometimes stuff just happens, which I can hardly accept).