[She sits in the dwindling minutes of sunset with her back against a rock, too busy writing in a loopy hand to keep an eye on the small settlement that would otherwise have been in view.]

All of you other-people out there, you can read this, right? That's what the storekeeper told me about these journals. Had a funny, distant feeling to him. If it weren't for the fact that he seemed more than a little empty between the ears, I'd have deemed him a pleasant fellow. But honestly? I'm getting a serious case of the wiggins. And who is the, let's say, very interesting individual who must be in charge of wardrobe for this wacky piece of drama? Because as much as I love the little-white-sundress look, I'm comfortable with committing homicide if the result was a gorgeously cut tan jacket. Something with chunky buttons.

So I get that this place is called Luceti, and that it's certainly nothing like the Kansas I left behind, Toto. I just wish this place's version of the Wicked Witch would show up already and I could get my thrash on. That would be much more desirable than sitting around feeling like a refugee from a cream cheese commercial.

Though, to tell the truth, wings are by far one of the less spooky somethings I've encountered. Sure, I've never really had such a personal encounter with them, but I'll adapt. I always do.