"Pondering"

I have slept twice since my last post to the blog, and not a single word from the other contributor to the web-page, the ever-elusive A, or from any other onlookers. Given that measuring time accurately seems to be quite impossible in this place, my sole measure of time is sleep cycles. Thus, I will set my clock by them.

But it on the matter of clocks that I wished to speak, for there has been a noise within my room for the past three-hundred countings of "one-elephant-two-elephant-three-elephant"; it was likely going on prior to this. It started after my second sleep cycle, but I was attempting to navigate this webspace, so I was not paying a particularly high amount of attention.

If you were to stand in a cave with sufficiently good acoustics, the sound would be akin to a droplet of water landing into a lake. The dripping of the water is in the room with me, it seems. It seems to occur once every two seconds, with an occasional moment when it will be silent for three. It is hard to concentrate with such a sound in my life.

The sound drowns out all else; the steady rhythm of fingers-on-keyboard is occasionally overcome by the dripping water. But it is not a loud sound; rather, silence falls for the sound to rise.

The water makes me think. I have not eaten or drank since I found myself in this place. Although I am quite done with growing, a girl still needs to eat at some point or another; metabolic processes require it. I am thus curious as to why there is no rumbling in my stomach and no croak in my throat. I remain as fit and healthy as I did since my first awakening. But, again, I cannot hold a stable command over the time in this place; two sleep-cycles may be only a few hours, if I had the possession of a clock.

Apart from the noise, there is nothing new in this place. The floor is now not as cold as it once was; it is almost a reasonable temperature. Given that there is nothing in this room besides myself and this computer, I have taken to using my clothes as a make-shift bed on the floor, as despite it's reasonable temperature, the floor is as hard as ever. The parts of my body that I cannot soften now have rather unpleasant bruising, which is worrying if I am to spend an extended period of time in this place.

I can only wonder as to my reason for being in this space, composed of order and nothing but.

"Paragon"

Yesterday, I got fired from my job. Or, rather, "made redundant"; the company, in grateful accordance with the Austrian economic model, thinks that there can be no gain without pain, and is thus tightening it's belts. And instead of laying off someone who's earning six or seven digits, they fire someone barely making four. No pain for them, just gain for them. So I went home, sat on my bed, sighed and went to sleep.

And woke up here. I haven't moved a single inch since I woke up. I found two items besides me; a torn piece of paper and a laptop computer. The laptop computer looks like it has been modified somewhat; there's no identifying features on it. The brand logo on the lid has been painted over; the ports have been removed. If there was a charger here, I could not put it in; same if I had a USB memory stick. It is, in short, a keyboard and touchpad attached to a screen. The vast majority of the system seems to be closed off to me, due to "administrator restrictions". The clock on the screen is in clear error; the four digits change at random intervals, as confirmed by "one-elephant-two-elephant" counting to sixty; in that time, it changed thrice. When I did so again, it changed twice. There is an irregular beat to it.

This is the only website that loads; not even the Google homepage works. On the paper, the following words were written, in this colouring: Paragon. -Account Password-. If you seek relief, release. Not quite sure what that means, but I think I should post here.

But that's aside from the point, in my eyes. You may wonder, mysterious Internet denizen, as to why I'm not freaking out, or assuming things at the moment. For one, panic is irrational, no point in panicking. Secondly, I'm either mad or something is "going on". I would think that I'd drank my sorrows away and passed out in this room, but there's three problems with that.

Firstly, no hangover. I'm terrible for hangovers.

Secondly, I don't own this laptop. Never seen it before in my life; given the paper, I'm thinking this is a gift from someone else.

Thirdly, I'd have quite a bit of trouble getting into this room from the outside, on the basis that there aren't any doors in this room. And I do mean that it's just a room; about two metres by two-and-a-half, at my reckoning. The walls are painted in ghostly white, as is the ceiling; the floor is painted jet black. The room is bare; there are no chairs, no tables. Just the hard floor, upon which I am sat now, typing this.

The walls are all solid; I have paced it several times, resting my hand upon the walls as I did so. I cannot reach the ceiling, even if I take a running start at the wall and try to push myself up with my foot. Thus, this room seems to be a closed circle of sorts; I cannot exit, and anything on the outside cannot come in.

I drum my fingers upon the wall as I type this; boredom has begun to set in. I may do some more thinking as to the nature of this place, but from what I can observe, this may be the strangest place on the planet Earth.