COLD SHIFT

Man, oh man, the blizzard is howling tonight. I like to think of the blizzard as a living, breathing thing. Definitely breathing, at least. So I have decided to call it Barbara The Blizzard. Because sometimes it feels like she is looking after me, by keeping me nice and warm, because I cannot go outside. Antarctica, you see, even without a blizzard, is quite lethal. At least now, with Barbara keeping me in, I take severe precautions before heading out. I have decided to like Barbara The Blizzard. She keeps me safe. I remember hearing stories of there being snow in Norway back in the day. Imagine that. The deserts would have been white. I think that is one of the reasons I came up here to begin with, to experience this magnificent thing nature has to offer. I learnt that no matter how cold or stark something is, there was beauty and tranquility in it also. Look at a snowflake through a telescope, and it is truly a piece of art. It's like negativity is the cold ice, and frozen in it is a golden city. Like the eight towers of the west ocean floor. — logged 01:47

Washing. Washing is a word I wish didn't exist. A word I wish I could wash away. Or a chore I wish I could wash away, rather. However, life is all about doing stuff we don't want to do every once in a while. And every once in a while I try to do Ingrid's chores while she is charging, to surprise her, and give her a day off. Now, I know she is a robot, and robots don't operate with currency such as stamina and grit, like we do. Neither do they need time off. However, Ingrid has spent too much time around human beings to maintain her rigid, robotic androidness. Deep down within her there is humanity brewing. I can sense it when talking to her, when I see her doing the dishes, when I hear her humming old tunes and dancing down the hallways on her commute between daily tasks. — logged 11:20

Been studying the "comet" for days now. I figured, if it won't reveal its true nature, I have to try and reveal it myself. If possible. The design is flawless, let me tell you. The more I study it, the more in awe I am of its impeccable architecture. Whoever made it knows what they are doing. Perhaps when they arrive, if they are benevolent, they will be able to fix my radio. I have more than enough work to go around, so if they are up for it, they could help me out around the facility. The Deep Earth Anomaly Department could be a state of the art facility in no time. Not that it's below par as it is. The facility is in top condition. I'm doing the best I can to keep it that way. Especially now with the overseer lurking around. Maybe I am his comet. A subject to study. Sometimes that is how it feels like, to be honest. Anyways, if that is the case, all I can do is do what I do best: all that I can. — logged 04:12

Heard the sirens sing again today. From the window above my bed. They seem to really want me to join them. I mean, ok, I am flattered and all, but seriously? Have they noticed there is a blizzard outside? And do they know how cold it is? I would be cold, let alone in danger. I stood up on my bed so I could invite them into the warm, but I couldn't see them at all. Just their singing, which is, I must confess, amazing. Heavenly, even. And I am not a man who throws compliments around him unless I really mean it. If I ever get good at this recording game, I'd love to have them as backup singers in my music project — HEAVY ASTRO. Imagine that.. — logged 23:36

I got a letter today. Now, the first thing I thought was: amazing, a letter, who is it from? Then I thought. Who delivered it? I mean, who did deliver it? There were no tracks in the snow, from a scooter, nor from shoes. Nothing. Somehow the letter made it through, though. My initial thought was that it may be from the government, but it had no official stamp, which it usually does. It was handwritten, shaky letters, saying "to Jaran, facility manager." That's it. So I opened it, and it said: "to whom it may concern, and if it doesn't, don't be concerned, it also concerns you. I.e. life." That's it. — logged 21:18

I had an idea. What if I use webbing from the fluorescent spiders to restring my ukulele? Obviously not webs in use, but webs left behind. They move around a lot, the spiders. Busy bees. Now, there are six of them. Theodore The Thing, Lisa Lucky Lucy, Mathis The Mutilator, Rocket Rick, Pedro Peninsula, Oscar The Oblivion. Weird ones, all of them, but I think they are highly intelligent. They hang out outside the green door. If only I spoke spider, I'd ask them about it, but I don't, so I won't. Oh well. — logged 16:47

So I heard the whistle from MS Svalbard howling tonight. Five rapid blasts. I have to get dressed, and go check it out. I wish Ingrid was made for harsh conditions. I'd like to have a robot by my side in this seemingly endless blizzard. Perhaps I should read "Build a Robot, and Deal With It" by Thomas Rust. It just seems like a daunting task to read five thousand pages AND understand it. Perhaps I could read "Sewing for Divers" by Roger Gudmundsson instead. A leaflet in comparison. That way I could make a salt-proof suit for Ingrid instead of risking her already pristine machinery. — logged 02:51