Hot Air

Yasamin, again. I tried to post on Monday, but it didn't work. I called my computer and internet providers, and the blogger people, but none of them could help me. I didn't know anyone else in London, apart from Jean, and she's mental. Still, I couldn't think of anything else.

So I went over to her apartment, rapped on her door, and explained my problem. She asked if my fingers tingled after I'd typed and some other weird questions. I answered them, and then she said that my posts were in a bubble of time. I turned to leave, and she stopped me.

"Basically," She said, "Someone doesn't want you to communicate with the folks and Malkirk. Which is odd, because you haven't learned anything that you don't already know, apart from a few names. Like Sl&ampmovedperminantlyerror21end/er. But I don't think they could do something so specific with a virus. Unless it could be done, which would explain a lot. In either case, the service'll probably go back up when you get back to Malkirk."

Then she talked more stuff, like conspiracy stuff at me, and I was confused, and didn't really want to pay attention to it. She told me to burn down the Church.

I don't know what's going on.