And a few days later of remote peace, except for the usual speak around of what had occured, started by an on-watching group of youth who had apparently hyped up the entire thing for us, I was sent a letter under the door of the single room that still felt like the best thing that had occured to me in my entire life. Slipped under by a hand while I read of some newspaper, and perhaps I had forgotten the headline of that day. And if they were trying to remain silent and hidden while doing that, they failed, not for any ridiculous occurance reason, just because of a desk placement where I could see it happen.

Ripping up the envelope like I always did, no victim left spared of that material, opening it up -- oh, how special. An invitation to a special night out with the rest of the new sentinels, just to grab something to eat. Most of the time, we all communicated with stationary anyways, and events like these would become commonplace as we grew together as a group. I had even bought the first set of pens that felt like mine and not simply borrowed just for that sort of thing, stacks of fancy things to use those pens on. And the junivile slight experience I had with small sketchy graffitis next to my words hadn't grown out yet, as I quickly came to write an acceptance, ending it with a symbol that would become commonplace amongst my writings, and perhaps here, too. My mark, that would become my signature, instead of the name of Lobster Cookie. You can see it, too, if you'd like.

And closing up that response, and leaving it under the right door, and getting back to what I was doing, oh my lovely daily paper. Well, it wasn't paper. None of this was papermade, rather, a synthetic sort of seaweed and something else mixture that resembles a sea-green paper, ridged edges to mark the look. Our standards for writing whatever you needed. And then waiting anxiously for it, tonight, a few hours.