The year is twenty ten. A young woman sits alone writing with a quill pen. She feels like a girl out of her time. As though she has been thrust into a world that is not her own. It holds nothing dear to her. The mechanics, the sterility of it all. She has stopped believing in feeling. How can a machine feel? She has stopped believing in love.
In an age when a common courtship lasts years if not into infinity. When marriage is a convention an not a product of strong emotion. Love has escaped the budoir of the matrimonial suite. Love has been damned to the streets, as it is, being sold for a wage-slave's salary.
Turning down her light the woman wraps her afghan closer aroun her shoulders.
Times were simpler then. In the world she cannot touch. In the world of long ago. Of the land far far away. Times were simpler. Love can exist in simplicity. Love, real love, true love, the love only now considered in fairy tales and mocked for it's obsurdity, cannot exist when it is only alive for making. The woman lives in a world for making. Making money, making machinery and making war. And of course making love. Love must be made now for it doesn't exist of it's own free will. And the synthetic adaptation that has replaced so sacred an emotion cannot satisfy a woman living out of her time.


- Cory (from the phone)