So...

[He can't quite seem to decide whether to use a happy or sad tone, whether to make a somber or pleased expression, so he's alternating between the two, sitting on the floor of his apartment cross-legged, looking earnestly at the device as it records.]

I guess that's it. I mean, I guess we're all going home. Definitely. And I want to go home, I need to go home, but I can't help but...

[A frown, a vague gesture that could really mean anything.]

You know how sometimes when you get something you want it turns out that you didn't want it as much as you thought you did? I don't know if that's a good example here. I still want to go home. I just know that there're a lot of people that don't. And a lot of people that I'm not looking forward to saying goodbye to. And I was tempted to just not say goodbye because that's easier, but it's also a lot shittier of me.

So...

[There's that drawn out so again, and now his face seems to have decided that sad is a good expression to stick with.]

If you want to... you know, say our last goodbyes, or whatever other depressing way I can phrase it, let me know. Only I can't promise I won't cry.

Ten Things I Worry About:

1. War. Specifically nuclear war, but war in general qualifies, I guess.
2. Hurting someone.
3. My thoughts.
4. What if everything we experience is actually just in our heads and in reality nothing is real.
5. Reality and what defines it. Is it different for different people?
6. What happens after we die.
7. Dying a virgin.
8. Is it really important to wear matching socks? Who decided that? Is that completely arbitrary? Who decides what "matches" anyway?
9. Being stuck in the City forever.
10. Making lists because what if they're not actually the top ten things I worry about and there's something else I want to put on it but the list is already made?


[Cursed with Listmania, of course, and not thrilled about this being shared.]

[It's an office. There's nothing about it that particularly stands out, except the fact that the walls of the room are completely covered in drawings and sketches and half-completed ideas, from floor to ceiling, overlapping each other in some places. The makeshift wallpaper seems almost too bright, somehow, too vibrant, the ink that's been used to doodle the thoughts onto the paper seeming to stand out from the taped and tacked up pages.

They're all advertisements. Some of them are thrown together and sloppy, some of them are meticulously crafted, some of them are incredibly inappropriate, the kind of thing that would never make it through a meeting, and some are good, the kind that could sell a product to anyone.

And in the middle of all the chaos, at the table which is covered in notebooks and glass bottles of soda and pencils and half-eaten sandwiches wrapped in paper, sits Ginsberg, hard at work on a typewriter…

… but not for long. Several seconds later, he's standing up from the table. He's picking up the typewriter with the kind of determination that suggests that he knows exactly what he's doing with it.

And in the odd logic of dreams, he's suddenly standing at a window, a window that overlooks Madison Avenue and the rest of Manhattan sprawled beyond it, and with the sound of shattering glass that's far too loud, too distinct, the typewriter is crashing through the window.

It's followed quickly by several other things, anything he can get his hands on, things that shouldn't be in an office at all, much less close at hand -- a tea kettle, a bottle of ketchup, an evening gown, anything that can go through the broken window does, falling or fluttering to the street below. All the while, Ginsberg seems to be muttering about products and brands.]

Jaguar... Heinz... some airline company, who cares about that... cigarettes, always cigarettes, but not Lucky Strikes, not after the letter... Manischewitz... Cran-Prune juice... disgusting...

[[OOC: Yes, welcome to him dreaming about work. You can feel free to be in the dream, and help him throw things out the window, or just judge him for making such a mess. Either way, it's open to all. C'mon in!]

[There's something to be said for the fact for being so distracted that he hasn't actually noticed this whole mistletoe thing going on yet. And that's amazing in it of itself, because he's actually even left the Welcome Center today, too, for the sake of running a little errand. When he turns on the video, he's morosely picking a piece of cake apart with a fork.]

So. Here's a question. I mean, I'm sure there're a lot of different answers to it, but consider this a poll. Or something. Or just one of those questions that nobody has the right answer to but everyone has their own answer to. What do people do about birthdays around here?

[He pokes the cake again.]

I mean, do you celebrate your birthday on the date that the calendar here says it is? Does it even qualify as a real birthday? Do we actually age here? Or is it better just to forget about that kind of thing entirely and just do whatever you want, because this place doesn't make any sense, anyway?

[A frown, a shake of his head, and then he's turning off the video and heading to drop the piece of cake in the trash... and to go wandering back out into the City, where you might catch him near some mistletoe, inadvertently.]

[The library's supposed to be quiet, but keeping quiet has always been pretty difficult for him, and now's no different, even if he's meant to be studying for something or another -- he's already forgotten what. So when he turns the video on, he's sitting there with his feet up on a table, absentmindedly pointing his wand at a stack of books and making them levitate.]

I'm pretty sure this about the only thing I'm going to get out of these books, anyway. I mean, sure, everybody's studying, but it's the weekend. Doesn't anyone want to do something other than study for exams?

[He stops paying attention to what he's doing for a moment, in favor of addressing the video directly, and the books clatter onto the table with several thuds that earn him a glare from other, more studious individuals.]

Okay, okay, I can't be the only one who's pretty sure they're bad at every single class, right? So maybe we can all get together and commiserate. Or go somewhere other than the library. Somewhere other than the library sounds great. Who's with me?

[[OOC: He's a 7th year Hufflepuff, and he's not all that fond of school. In fact, he'd rather be doing just about anything than studying. Who wants to help him slack off?!]

[It's pretty hard to disguise the fact that his hands are shaking when he turns on the video, and even harder to disguise the fact that he's sitting on the floor somewhere, arms wrapped around his knees, steadfastly avoiding looking anywhere except the communicator.]

Has anyone seen...

[He shakes his head, a little too frantically.]

Okay. Let me start over. Has anyone been seeing... things in the mirror? Strange things? Things that shouldn't be there but that're definitely there? I think I might be going crazy. There's something there, and I'm not...

[Squeezing his eyes shut for a moment, he tries his best to get his thoughts together. It's an uphill battle.]

I've never hallucinated like this before. Other hallucinations, maybe, but not like this. Please tell me I'm not the only one, someone. I don't think I can take it much longer.

So.

[Look, there's no panic this time. And he's deliberately posting to the network, rather than accidentally doing so.]

Now that I'm relatively calmed down from showing up here -- not entirely calmed down, because really, this is the kind of place that takes at least a couple weeks to get used to -- I'm starting to realize that I need a job. As much as I was hoping this place was some kind of alternate dimension utopia where we didn't have to work, I'm pretty sure that being able to buy food and pay rent is one of those necessary things in every dimension.

If you're hiring, let me know.

[A pause, and then...]

And as an entirely unrelated to finding me employment question, what're your opinions on blind dates? Good idea? Bad idea? Hilarious idea?

[There’s no way Ginsberg’s been looking at the communicator. No, it might as well not exist at all, although it is recording, although he's unaware of it. Instead, he’s sitting on the edge of the fountain, soaking wet, talking to… whoever happens to wander by -- and, apparently, to the network, as well.]

Where am I? Is this some kind of drug induced hallucination? Because let me tell you right now, I don’t do that kind of thing. If someone snuck something into my coffee, I’m gonna be mad. I keep telling everyone, that stuff makes me paranoid. And now something’s making me hallucinate a whole city.

[He scrubs a hand across his face, shaking the water out of his hair as he does so.]

I have work to do. This account, this Manischewitz account, I have to get to the meeting.

[A slight grumble, and then…]

Not that I want to go, anyway. If someone could point me back to Madison Avenue, though, that’d be great. Really great. In fact, look, I’ll buy you lunch or something if you can get me out of here. Just get me out of here.

[He puts his head in his hands.]

I don’t know what the hell’s going on...