When I think about how I can plan messages which will be
published millenia after my death, cold shivers run down my spine,
like this snowball back then, which had been thrown to the back of my head
when I was eight years old (which was the admission procedure
for fourth grade by the way (those were crazy times! I would tell you
about the ducks, but there are minors on the loose in here)).
Those crazy times will sink into oblivion, unless I write a message to the
future. And this is exactly what I did. Whoever's still alive on
my 111th birthday, just after the start of the 22nd centure
(not the mathematically correct one, but the real one (oil
to the flames, my geeky friends)), can read a message from the past, provided
Blogger doesn't find out about the ducks.
published millenia after my death, cold shivers run down my spine,
like this snowball back then, which had been thrown to the back of my head
when I was eight years old (which was the admission procedure
for fourth grade by the way (those were crazy times! I would tell you
about the ducks, but there are minors on the loose in here)).
Those crazy times will sink into oblivion, unless I write a message to the
future. And this is exactly what I did. Whoever's still alive on
my 111th birthday, just after the start of the 22nd centure
(not the mathematically correct one, but the real one (oil
to the flames, my geeky friends)), can read a message from the past, provided
Blogger doesn't find out about the ducks.
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Oh hai!