Hi everyone,
It's been sometime since I, or anyone, has mentioned anything here. I think it should be stated how much this place means to me. A friend of mine created this place, and I often reflect on how important this place has been especially within my very chaotic year.
I was diagnosed with anxiety nearly a year and some handful of months ago. Anxiety takes shape differently in men then it does in women; which is completely fine. However, often men are taught to suppress emotions so anxiety often takes shape in the form of depersonalization and derealization. These two symptoms are my main ones and were some of the worst things I've ever felt. I've been working on it though. If you are unsure about what those are, I recommend researching what they are if you aren't certain.
But I've been able to enjoy some of the greatest moments of my life despite it all. I think that is extremely important as milestones to my pains. I think sometimes the pain in life is worth fighting those hard battles. Even against yourself, when they are inside of your head. 
Anyways, I hope this finds you all well and you keep on fighting those hard battles. I think it's tough out there and you have to just keep going. I hope all of you are doing well and keep growing like I have. I am thankful forever of this place and places where I can speak openly. Connection to those who want to be there for you is extremely important, never forget theat.

A Yearly Update

First and foremost, I apologize for my absence in posting. I have focused myself on completing some of the last classes for school as I approach the end of my time achieving my degree.
Unfortunately, my skills in utilizing the customization for Showdown is lacking, therefore this post will likely lack the same beautification that my dear friend Gabe has been able to achieve.
In response to the post that Gabe made discussing the <a href="https://www.mutualthreads.club/posts/machinelearned-art">AI Generated Art</a> or Machine Learned Art as he described, unfortunately offers bold claims with little substance. The irony being he describes the term perfectly, this is not AI generated, but instead it is machine learning. The difference? AI implies there is self awareness of a new lifeform that has been created artificially. Artificial Intelligence like in Science Fiction with characters like Data from Star Trek:TNG. Sad to say, we are still a very long ways off from reaching the level of intelligence presented here. But keeping with the pop culture reference, here is Data <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3Pq1D6EcHeI&ab_channel=Word2Herb">actually painting</a>. When we do reach the level of far off Science Fiction, we will have achieved true AI generated art.
What is happening with systems like Dall-E, the same program used to create the image in <a href="https://www.mutualthreads.club/posts/machinelearned-art">this post,</a> is complete and utter plagiarism. Daniel Cooper in an article describes the process of how these systems work by pulling images from the internet made by real people to train the machine to create new images (2022). The issue being that while the outcome of the 'art' is new, it works on the backs of humans (Cooper 2022). Taking the original product and turning it into something new might not be a new concept, in fact it has been happening since the dawn of time. So why is a computer program that does this same function so different? The difference stems from how the machine uses no skill, no passion, and no originality. The program simply views the database of the internet and pulls from unknown artists to fuel the next produced image.
There is real harm here. Plagiarism, after all, is quite literally stealing the ideas of someone else. Once the machine starts pumping out more and more images it will run artists out of real jobs. It will make humanity lazy and forgo the effort put into creating art. The problem arises here because less artists will be putting out their work either because of the ease of machine learning or because of the plagiarism that occurs with it. In either case the outcome remains the same, less art for the machine to steal from. When the machine has less to learn from it becomes stagnant in how it operates. Regardless of how it produces 'new' images, they are still based on the human element which when there is a lack of fuel, it has a lack of ideas to steal from. Therefore, the machine cannot create something truly original because the new images it produces are still based on the old art.
Sadly, all art is under attack. Writing software like ChatGPT or Bard are also on the rise. These use the exact same tactics of pulling information from the internet to produce a new outcome. What is even more scary about these software's is how biased they have become. It can filter out certain ideas or push an agenda based on the mass information that is available (Marchandot et al 1). It also directly leads to a decrease in the ability to think critically and creatively (Marchandot et al 1). Again we see the same issue. Authors, researchers, and even coders, might relay too heavily on machine learning which causes people to be unable to create something actually new. Now there is real danger here. When using software to write a research paper how can there be any sort of critical thinking from a specialist in a field when it is all based on biased or wrong information. Or not all of the information is considered as the machine takes a small sample size of the much larger idea. It will create stagnation.
Is machine learning actually art if there is nothing behind it besides typing a line of text? Or is the issue actually that humanity has again become overzealous in its consumerism? After all, we can make the machine pump out any number of works of images or text, but more often then not these are thrown away in the trash bin after the initial enjoyment has been seized from the cheap copy. When it comes to art the purpose "is to serve a political function by resisting instrumental rationalizations and elevating the imagination or the passions above all else. Art exists in an autonomous space that is separate from the rest of the social world and is disinterested." (Marchessault 8). Does machine learning actually elevate the imagination or passion? The argument would remain, no. It steals from those who do elevate imagination or passion and attempts to pass it off as an original new creation. Meanwhile the original artist has nothing to show for it, and worse has no idea their artwork that is public on the internet is being stolen. Not only does it offer no passion it is the exact opposite of disinterested in the social world. It quite literally takes from the social world, whereas real art would not care whether you liked it or not, it simply exists. Although you do not need to be skilled to create art, you do need to put in some effort to make it meaningful. 
In the end, humanity is waiting at one end of the machine excited for what it will produce while there are those unknowingly jumping in the other side of the machine. Consumerism based on the prey that is our artwork. Andy Warhol not only held the same belief that art is anything you can get away with, a common thinking in postmodernist art. But he also is quoted as,
In the future, we will all be famous for 15 minutes.
Warhol not only correctly predicted this, but here in the future, we might not even get 15 minutes.
Works Cited
Cooper, Daniel. “Is Dall-E's Art Borrowed or Stolen?” Engadget, 27 July 2022, <a href="https://www.engadget.com/dall-e-generative-ai-tracking-data-privacy-160034656.html?guccounter=1&amp;guce_referrer=aHR0cHM6Ly93d3cuZ29vZ2xlLmNvbS8&amp;guce_referrer_sig=AQAAAHEhltvC9AhDoKZGzuru8i_J2CwPQhmS_xMIlrjp1LqJhjLsbp9iSzDxFvU2Ws1Ibju4OFkBjPS8oHZ6AG4ZUPhzDf83ZWA6TF2pf_pZ18b9tJj4n6OOhT7OvKBzbpEu1jUw9ui_fodkLVenjEeHVem1PPuYew8KBjjndUo_jmgb">https://www.engadget.com/dall-e-generative-ai-tracking-data-privacy-160034656.html?guccounter=1&amp;guce_referrer=aHR0cHM6Ly93d3cuZ29vZ2xlLmNvbS8&amp;guce_referrer_sig=AQAAAHEhltvC9AhDoKZGzuru8i_J2CwPQhmS_xMIlrjp1LqJhjLsbp9iSzDxFvU2Ws1Ibju4OFkBjPS8oHZ6AG4ZUPhzDf83ZWA6TF2pf_pZ18b9tJj4n6OOhT7OvKBzbpEu1jUw9ui_fodkLVenjEeHVem1PPuYew8KBjjndUo_jmgb</a>. 
Marchandot, Benjamin, et al. “Chatgpt: The Next Frontier in Academic Writing for Cardiologists or a Pandora’s Box of Ethical Dilemmas.” European Heart Journal Open, vol. 3, no. 2, 2023, <a href="https://doi.org/10.1093/ehjopen/oead007">https://doi.org/10.1093/ehjopen/oead007</a>. 
Marchessault, Janine. Marshall McLuhan: Cosmic Media. SAGE, 2005.

In Response to Machine-Learned Art

The title says it all. Perhaps it would make for a more interesting story if I did not immediately give it away however, I feel there is more worth telling.
Today I rode a horse. I don't think my job would appreciate it if I began representing them in a public space without going through the proper channels and seeking the approval needed to actually publicly begin representing them. In this case, I will simply say I work in the field of conservation. So at my job the opportunity to ride a horse arose and I clearly took it up.
I have never rode a horse before. It was quite generous of those folk who work in that department to give me the opportunity. They didn't really have to train me, or calm me down. I was not anxious about it in the slightest. If I knew one thing, it was that anxiety translates into the horse being anxious about you getting on its back. So I remained calm, hopped up on its back, and learned the basics of horse riding. There was not much to it.
That was it. Why do I bring any of this up? I think this loops into a much larger philosophy. I have tried a lot of new things as of recently just to gain some perspective on a hobby, field, or even sometimes a food. It didn't always mean that it became my new favorite thing, but it did always force me to learn something new. Although, sometimes I did discover a new passion in my life. Hockey and painting are just some examples of what I learned I had a passion for purely because I decided to give something new a try.
I was very stubborn as a child. I never cared for trying new things, I only ever wanted more of the same. Honestly, that was just sitting at home and playing video games. Sports were boring, art was boring, I did not even find pleasure in reading. How could anyone enjoy those mundane hobbies? I am almost certain that if I could travel back in time my past self would never believe the things I like today. I have spent a lot of time thinking about what changed. I don't know if I could even give a clear answer on such. Here is my best attempt.
Trying something new is a skill even if you don't like it. I think this last part is extremely important to the overall argument. As a person you could never enjoy everything the world has to offer. It is simply impossible. However, that does not mean you can't at least respect everything in the world. I also think that the former part is important as well. Anxiety about the unknown is inevitable. It is scary to try a new thing!
However, I think the scarier thought is that people are too fearful of the unknown and would much rather ignore such a thing. It is why I truly believe trying something new is a skill you gain over time. After a while you won’t fear it anymore.

Today I Rode a Horse.

Over the weekend I got to have a great discussion with one of the other authors for this board. You can read more about it in his own post about what the goals for this website were. To which I became infatuated with the ideas he put forward. Generally, it really got me thinking about the world and the people who live in it.
Within my own field of study I often come across language. English, after all, is only one facet of a tremendously large mountain of how people communicate. The central point of everything we do is to communicate to others. To this point, one of my favorite stories that pivots around communication is the Tower of Babylon. The summarized version of this story details how all of man spoke one language and threatened God therefore, God divided the people and gave them new languages to speak so they could never again reach up into the heavens.
This story is likely one of my favorites from the Bible. Although I myself am not extremely religious, the tale gives some comfort as to the big question, why do we all speak different languages? Although no one knows the answer, this is one of the many things that makes us all different. We can even tell when someone is from another area in the country because the vocabulary and speech patterns are different from our own; we can even gauge how old someone is based on how they speak.
The biggest reason I bring all of this up is because I do not think this is a curse. Many view God’s act here as a punishment, or think one standard language should be prescribed upon the world. I would disagree with both. Language directly affects our outlook on the world, it gives us the means to describe the things around us. Differences in language provide new outlooks on the world around us.
One of my favorite examples of this is looking at the words tree and forest. In English you just saw what those two words look like. Tree and Forest. What did you picture with tree? What did you picture with forest? The words describe a similar idea. Now let’s look at some Japanese. Here is that same word, tree, 木. Here is that other word, forest, 森. It might be difficult to tell but when you look closely, tree is represented with 木 symbol. Forest is this same symbol but multiples of it 森. Therefore, a tree is one, but a forest is many. In terms of description the word does a phenomenal job at achieving something our letter based alphabet lacks. It is a different way of thinking about the same world around us.
A difference in languages is then a difference in thinking about our world. At this point I am reminded of my elegant chat with our other author. We were volunteering together, working to achieve a similar goal, and had friendly ties. I do not know his political views, religious views, or other hot topic opinions. Of which I must then ask, if I did know any of these views, would I think more negatively of this person especially without our shared background? I sure hope not. He reminded me that we are more alike than we are different. Not only this, but our differences are not something to be afraid of, to dislike someone over. They are something to engage with, learn more about, and bring about understanding. It is likely that someone who is different then you will actually have more in common with you then you think.
Communication is a powerful tool. It takes effort, it takes time, but it does work. One of the painful parts about being human is that you will not understand everything. Sometimes you will simply not like something someone said. It is more important than ever to keep in mind that other people are simply human just like you. They have a family, friends, and an entire life you would be lucky to glimpse into. Perspective shapes the unique view on the world that requires communication to bridge the gap between two people.

Understanding

Today I wanted to take a step back from the short stories or other philosophical thoughts to discuss something a bit silly. Sports.
As many people may or may not know I am heavily invested in certain teams for sports. However, when I was younger I thought the entire idea of this investment was idiotic. Why would I ever want to watch other people play sports? That seemed absolutely dumbfounded. Therefore, many of my younger years were spent disregarding those who enjoyed this pass time. I thought the statistics were meaningless, the players were stuck up, and the overall experience a borefest.
So what changed? One thing I found intensely profound was the communities that surround each team. There is a history, value system, and even traditions. It's not unlike joining a church, enjoying your own culture, or perhaps actually joining a team. You become apart of the "in group". There is even some extra fun to be had found outside your own team's community. Almost like an astrological sign, you find that people will begin making first impressions based on what team you support.
Community is a major factor for myself when I first got invested. I think it is actually ignorant to disregard other peoples enjoyments like I did when I was much younger. People enjoy sports. Who am I to think that they are wrong in such a venture? I will not deny, some people can take it a bit far. If your entire personality is devoted to this one aspect of life, I do think that is worthy of criticism. However, any community, whether it is sports or not, will have these statistical outliers. It is important to understand when something is perhaps a bit too much. Gluttony applies even in this case.
Once you've made it past this though, there is little reason not to get involved. Pick a sport you most enjoy, pick a team you most enjoy, and simply have some fun. I myself, love the Toronto Maple Leafs. I'm sure you dear reader now knowing this information, gave a audible sigh. Fear not though, I enjoy the banter; I receive it on a daily basis. Walking into a place with my teams jersey often results in at least someone walking over and mentioning it. We laugh, exchange some lighthearted insults, or perhaps even compliments. Regardless of such, we are contained within the "in group". It is a belonging to a larger community that gives a real sense of grounded companionship.
This is a rare feeling to be found outside of communities. All enjoying a sports team is merely experiencing that part of a community. I think it is easy for people to disregard it much like I did, however, try to keep an open mind to it. People enjoy it because of whatever personal reason they have chosen. It means something real to them. It now means something real to me. With that feeling, I try to be more open minded about what people enjoy and think why do they enjoy this community? What traditions or culture surrounds that community?

Sports

Rebellion accomplished very little, the young prince thought. He pondered over the reports flooding into the palace room. Though, not for him, and it was quite rude to eavesdrop. Regardless, he knew something was going on outside. Outside the walls of the palace that is. He was never allowed to leave in fear that something might happen. He heard the same excuse each time from his father. It is for your own good.
This never made any sense though. How was he supposed to be a successful ruler? Was he not to meet his own subjects? It simply did not make any sense at all. A good ruler should be aware of everything going on outside, not cooped up inside like some kind of animal. There might be a hint of irony in all of that, he thought.
Perhaps there is some merit to the rebellion. Though there was no way to ever really know without meeting those who would resist the law. Perhaps they felt the same way as Prince Beaumont. It would be a difficult escape pulled off.
Escape… That is a really difficult idea to grapple with. Beaumont wanted to shed the elegant clothing for something more simple to know what life was like for those simple folk. How else would he be the ruler that his father wanted? He paced up and down the clean tile floor, each step creating a ripple of sound that echoed throughout the hallway.
A maid would enter the hallway. Immediately she looked down away from the prince, so as not to offend royalty. Beaumont paid little attention as he stopped at a window to look out. Down below was an ocean of lawn with each blade of grass cut to a perfect height. A small fountain produced water from a spout that ran down stone steps to create a beautiful stream flow.
“Have you prepared everything?” Beaumont moused, his words offering very little falter. He wanted to seem certain of this without showing an inch of fear.
“Of course m’lord.” The maid replied, without looking up from the hay broom that swept back and forth.
And with that the prince knew everything he needed to. He moved off into his bedroom to begin preparing his end of things. His servants were loyal to him, but even then, that required a certain amount of loyalty in return. Beaumont started pressing against the stone walls until one of the bricks played loose. Removing this revealed a stash of pounds. Each plated in gold, worth quite a bit to a simple servant.He placed the sack of pounds in the top drawer of his dresser, somewhere that was not obvious but could be found by someone who was busy putting away the royal garments.
With that he made his way through the fortress of stone walls and long hallways to reach the open air. Beaumont took a large breath of the free air. He began making his way to the royal garden where a few gardeners were busy toiling away with a variety of vegetables and fruit trees. Each one required serious upkeep to prevent weeds from soiling the perfect fertilizer that promotes growth.
Beaumont looked out over the garden. Again, everyone kept their head down to avoid looking up at someone who was more important. Even more importantly they were the masters of their own kingdom. To establish law and rule within their own nation for the citizens of fruit and vegetables. They could hear directly what issues the plants had and they could make immediate changes to ensure they remained green and healthy. Any neglect would cause a revolt and ultimately death.
Prince Beaumont broke his gaze at the garden and made his way to the back shed where most of the garden tools were stored. Inside was a large room with some cots setup where the gardeners lived. He moved to one of the storage containers and began to flip through it. Plain clothes were inside something that would draw no attention and something that absolutely did not look like royalty.
After a quick change of clothes the young prince became simply another person. He pushed his way out of the shed to be met by the same maid from earlier. She motioned Beaumont to follow.
“We will be going to the market to pick up some necessities. From there you would be free.” She commanded. Her demeanor had completely changed as she looked directly into the eyes of Beaumont.
All he could manage was a simple nod. He followed the maid out of the gates of the castle who did all of the talking to the royal guards. She had long blonde hair and a youthful look that rivaled the prince’s. Once out of the gate she took the prince's hand and began running off towards the market.
“I’m Sybil by the way.” she giggled, darting through the large crowds of people.
The prince had no sense of direction and quickly felt lost. All he knew from this moment forward was the blue ocean eyes of the maid he was following. No longer just a maid however, she was Sybil.
Beaumont followed with glee seeing so many different stalls once they reached the market place. Some stalls were closed with wood boards, however some were open with welcome arms. The crowd in the market place was very light. Those who were there spoke in hushed voices, complaining about trivial life issues. Taxes, pay, and a whole side of life that Beaumont has never known.
Sybil led the prince to a run down inn, one that looked like at one point in time was a really nice place in a perfect location. But grease and water stains permeated the entire building at this time. Inside were some people huddled around the bar each with a small mug of mead. None seemed interested in their drink, and everyone seemed interested in what the barkeep had to say. They also each had a red leather arm band.
Once the door shut each of their heads turned to meet Sybil’s eyes.
Sybil began construction on the barricade. They were going to create a parameter around the plaza of the marketplace. This was going to be the final stand for the revolution. Except this time they had their ace in the hole. A prisoner. Prince Beaumont was the lone heir to the throne. Even if everything went wrong, they would end the lineage of the old kingdom. Their republic would come from the chaos. When that chaos chose to show its face was another matter. 
She helped push each of the stalls to create their borders. Furniture from all of the buildings was plundered for additional barricades. This was going to be the Republic of Gold Square. This would grow to a new republic that would overtake the old kingdom. She had believed in their cause and they elected the bartender to be the leader of this new republic.
She did feel bad. There was a sense of guilt for the prince. She knew they were outgunned and outnumbered especially once the army would be called in. Would this really accomplish anything, Sybil pondered.
She looked to the center of the plaza. There was a large statue of the first king riding his horse. Bound to it was Prince Beaumont who was surrounded by wood. The army would not risk blundering such a valuable target. But his eyes never left Sybil. That is what truly made her feel guilty. He was honest to his word as well. He asked about everyone’s name, their struggles, and how he could help. Beaumont really did want to help it seems.
Once the new fortifications were built fellow republicans started taking positions along the wall, each armed with a flintlock firearm. It was not long before the army responded themselves. They started taking up positions down the street and creating their own protection. There was an air of silence.
This lasted into the night as well. The prince had fallen asleep, likely from exhaustion from sitting in the sun. But it seemed like his head turned to constantly follow Sybil. Oil lamps were being lit as shifts were being created to man the gates. Sybil retreated into the inn that had been turned into a makeshift barracks.
Early in the morning a general from the army rode on his horse into the no man's land between the two nations. The barkeep who was elected by the republic to be their leader walked out of the republic borders to meet him. Sybil was put on shift and stood peeking over a wood bench to see it all.
“You know our conditions. We have the crown prince. Our demands shall be met.” The barkeep spoke.
The general remained stoic. He removed a scroll and started speaking as if it was a proclamation, “The king has died. The prince has gone missing. The military will be issuing martial law. As the highest ranking official, I will be the next ruler.” As quickly as he spoke he removed his own flintlock pistol and dispatched the barkeep.
Sybil was stunned. This was all for naught. Their freedom was over. There would be a new so-called king to take the place of the old. Their revolution had acted as a revolver, and simply revolved in a new monarch.

Lavender Tapestry: A short story

Time is but a river to which we are the pond scum to float atop. We can never truly escape the river where it meanders and we must be the slave to the flow. Some moments of the river seem to drag on as the current is slow and other moments seem to pass in a blink of an eye where the current is fast. Some rivers are longer then others, but they all end somewhere. People tend to think about what they could do if they changed the flow of the river, without considering the effects it would have down stream. If a river only flows one way, and one must constantly flow with the river, by changing the flow of the river you remove the fact you changed the river at all.
It is a paradox.
Obviously, that is what makes the conundrum of time an impossibility. We know what the river behind us looked like, we can experience the river at the exact moment, and we can try our best to prepare for how the river will be in the future. It remains that we cannot change how the river acts. Perhaps that is what makes the concept of time travel so appealing, because all any human ever wants is to see the unknown.
A small finch lands on the river.
Finch stood at the small door in a narrow back alley. The main street hummed with motorcades that echoed down into the alley, only being muffled by the light rain. These were his favorite kind of days where the rain pooled in gutters and formed a stream. It made walking more interesting because the sound of his boots would make each step more satisfying. It also conveniently made a great excuse for being late. Well, Finch thought, no point in standing around.
He pushed his way into the door, the only resistance being that the door was in desperate need of being oiled. Inside he was greeted with a thick haze that stuck to the ceiling. He could tell the weather based on how smoke rises. When it hangs in the air, it implies the weather is stable. Therefore, Finch knew that the room was stable. The small bar, some booths, and flimsy tables littered the room. No one was able to look up, too entranced by their drinks.
Finch knew exactly where to go however. He could feel his boot impressions on the floor and he made his way over to one of the booths in the back. It had ripped leather revealing the cushions beneath. It also contained a very large greasy man, who made no bother to acknowledge Finch. Typical, based on his dilated eyes and the earpieces he was currently browsing some program. All Finch could manage was a large sigh.
Interrupting the man would create chaos, or at the very least a coma. He had to come out willingly. Finch knew this all too well. He retreated to the bar, somewhere with a good vantage point to watch both the man and the rest of the bar.
The man was Finch’s client. He had spent most of his days here as of recently in a depressed state. Well, it is no wonder, the man hired Grey Hawk Firm to investigate his wife; He worried she was having an affair. Of course Finch had discovered exactly that and carried the photographic evidence in his left breast pocket of his jacket. 
Before Finch could think any longer about the subject, his thought was interrupted by the bartender. 
She waved her hand to get Finch’s attention. “Read the sign.”
With her other hand, and cigarette wrapped in wrinkly fingers, she pointed the ash towards the sign. It read in big bold letters:
NO SOLICITING, NO LOITERING, BUY SOMETHING OR GET OUT.
Finch could only really manage an awkward shrug before shuffling in his chair to obtain his wallet. “Do you accept card?”
There was a loud croak of a groan from the lady who removed two stone tablets, or at least that’s what they looked like. They were actually imprinting devices meant to create a physical copy of the card. It was a rather massive headache to process a credit card these days. Before Finch was born he had heard stories about how these transactions would actually be performed instantly. But that was before the uprising.
Finch worked a smile, knowing that this was more work than it was worth to the bartender, and spoke politely, “Sorry, I don’t ever keep cash. You know how it is out there?” Attempting to justify his lack of cash. “Just cranberry juice.”
He extended his arm with the card in hand to meet the bartender half way. She took it and carefully placed it onto the lower stone before running the top over it. This was completed with an ear piercing metal grinding sound. Afterwards she returned the card and began on the drink.
It was a pretty awful drink despite the only ingredient being juice. It somehow tasted watered down. Finch really didn’t have much else to think about while waiting. No way to skip through the moment either, as he could miss his window of opportunity to catch his client. People shuffled in, and people shuffled out like tides in the ocean.
After what seemed like a few hours the large greasy man finally came to, removing the earpieces and coming to. Finch quickly downed what was left in his glass and made his way once again over to the booth.
“Dean?” he spoke softly.
The man looked up but only offered the look one gets after waking up from a longer then expected nap. Everything looked hazy, and there was no way one could tell what time it was or where they were.
“I got the evidence Dean.” Finch said, removing a manilla colored folder from his jacket and placing it on the table. The kind of folder that all great detectives should have on hand. Dean merely looked down at the folder but remained silent.
Deja Vu.
Finch felt a moment. Like a whirlpool, going around and coming back, Finch suddenly felt ill. He had been here before at some moment. He waved his hand to Dean before quickly leaving the fine establishment back into the alley. Afterall, the job was done, there was no need for any small talk. He could be on his way. He quickly walked down the alley, stumbling around as if he was drunk.
Eventually, reaching the main road, he felt a moment of clarity. Motorcades passed by, and the soft raindrops on his face made everything feel a bit more real. He closed his eyes.
When he opened them again he stood at another door. It was Grey Hawk Firm’s office. There was no point in keeping record of the long walk home, so Finch had his augmentations ‘forget’ that part. It made traveling such a breeze. You could be anywhere in a moment.
Though, he was still late. Grey Hawk Firm never closed, such is the business model of being a private investigator. He figured it was three or four in the morning but it was hard to tell. The clouds reflected the light pollution back down and created the illusion it was probably earlier than that. Well, Finch thought, no point in standing around. He pushed his way into the office and was met with a very small office space. Oliver, his coworker and co-owner of the business, sat at the front desk waiting.
He was a thinly man, someone who looked like they never ate enough. Yet, despite this, Finch has seen him eat on several occasions.
“You’re late,” Oliver murmured like a parent would to a guilty child. “How long does it take to deliver a simple evidence folder?” Finch, and likely Oliver, already knew what the response was going to be. 
“Sorry, the weather kept me up.” Finch said with an innocent smile.
Oliver simply shook his head at Finch before turning to the wall mounted television. It was always on the news since they needed to know what was happening around the city. Good business practice.
“So, any new clients come in?” Finch followed up, trying to change the subject as best he could.
Oliver simply sighed a response. “Nope. It is usually a slow time of year, you know that. Oh, did you see this?” Oliver pointed at the television.
There was a bland stereotypical newscaster, but Finch recognized something. In the tiny separate box to the top right contained a picture of a bar..
“Huh? Oh, I know that place. I was just there. Dean was wallowing-” Finch was interrupted as he grimaced reading the scrolling text that followed.
Bar explosion in the Witker District. Investigations are underway.
No way, Finch thought, he was just there! Must have left shortly after it happened based on the distance from the bar to the firm’s office.
Oliver spoke up, “You really need to get your augments checked out. You seem to constantly avoid dangerous situations. I’ll bet your perception chips are malfunctioning.”
Finch moved towards the television and pressed the off button. “Let’s not worry about that now shall we? Just another job well done. How about some coffee?”

Finch in a Bird's Cage: A short story.

The incoherent daze of waking up from the illusions that you were once somewhere else. Though, this is because I was once somewhere else before I was here. The city on the edge of forever. But I can remember these dreams upon dreams. This fainting moment of daze lasts mere seconds but this allows us to pierce the veil into the forgotten realm of sleep. The rapidly shifting emotions that feel like lifetimes are impressed upon the mold that is the mind. They make us angry, cry, love. For those that walk the land between night and day feel both the heat of the day, and the cold of the night.

Some old writing I did

Upon first receiving knowledge about MT I nearly jumped right out of my seat and into my phone to get access. Of course, such things rarely work this way and I had to be patient. In the meantime, I tried thinking about what my debut post should look like. Would it be: discuss deep philosophical meanings of life, one of my short stories, or simply how to fry an egg? The conclusion I came to after I slept on the idea was to instead to give the gift of knowledge to anyone who might stumble across the fated first post.
Some context, I am attending my local college for my BA in English. I expect to graduate in the fall of 2023. I have learned a lot about how to write and do so effectively. The context I am providing here is not meant to be seen as a "flex" but instead to give way to the information that I spent money on something I am going to give any reader free of charge.
Writing. When it comes down to it, any artist can simply be just an artist. Many of the great writers never studied English at all in their background. The science fiction genre is filled with engineers and computer science majors. The key to success therefore, is the activity of producing art. Sit down and write. It takes time but no book was ever created in a day. 
A sort of irony is how many people are worried their works won't be good enough. Some people even struggle with the, what if I don't sound smart enough and use big words? Valid concerns. Let me pose an interesting scenario. Often English majors are seen as elitist for language. They use big words and can even find a purpose for that pesky semicolon; This is the higher echelon of speech that we associate with the field of English. I call those people fake English majors.
This high level of knowledge for the art has created true grammar dictators. Yet, they swoon over an author who uses a comma incorrectly to produce a certain flow of a sentence. In this case a fake English major is this elitist grammar dictator. A true English major would never genuinely do this. The artist wanted to produce a certain tone within their work. If their message is conveyed effectively we should not fret over the minor details. In many cases the greatest authors in the world, who are not even English majors, often make these mistakes. Therefore, you should too! Sit down and write. Create your message and convey it to the world.
Language is truly a testament to the world we live in. Never devalue when it is used or how it is used. What do I mean by this? I am of course talking about lowbrow language. Many older folk become annoyed with the permeation of text speech. I am talking about the "lol, idk, fr, emoji" speak. This lowbrow speak holds value and weight just as much as any other language we use. Never discredit those who use it to you. Try to keep an open mind and think about, what is the message that is attempted to be conveyed to me? After all, even a simple "idk" means someone put some kind of effort into responding to you when they didn't have to reply at all.
I encourage everyone to sit down and write. I've said it a few times haven't I? Sure did. In case you missed it.
SIT DOWN AND WRITE.
There was that good enough? Good. Writing is a daunting task filled with many hoops to jump through. If you skipped straight to the bottom I'll just give a generalized version of what I said here. Ignore many concerns you have about your writing and just get to it. The only way you're ever going to get there is by practicing. Enjoy the company of inner thoughts that others have allowed you to see a fraction of. As for me I'm going to go work on some midterms. Don't worry, I'll be back.

James MacGregor