Sasya Fox's Blog

Farewell

You were my hero.

Mr. Kitty’s candle burned out on April 18th, a minute past midnight, as he lay in our arms. We knew it was coming, but our hearts are no less broken. He was our best friend for more than a quarter of our lives.

He was unique. Soulful. Intelligent. Polite. Sweet. He had none of the stereotypical “cat” craziness, and he had the kindest soul. When he found a lizard or a bird trapped, he would just stare with wonder in his eyes, rather than go into “hunting mode.” But he loved to spar with me… we’d play-fight and wrestle for hours sometimes, and chase each other through the house… then switch to snuggles and purrs without pause. 

He would come to greet me at the door when I came home, and sit by the door after I left. He would always come out to greet us excitedly in the morning when we’d get up. He’d curl up on my luggage to keep me from leaving, and sometimes sit in front of the door looking up at me as if asking me to stay. He never knew fear or pain—and he loved everyone. But he also loved his family, even just being around us. He loved spending family time watching TV with all of us. He loved curling up in blanket forts between my legs as I wrote. The purrs and nuzzles and mrrples seemed infinite.

They weren’t.

Florida: Day zero.

At twenty-two hundred I leave metro Atlanta in my rented pickup, chasing a blood red crescent moon towards my battered homeland.

I stop in Columbus, Georgia, at a waffle house, for what I assume might be the last hot meal for a while. The waitress is friendly, curious about my pilot uniform. Sheepishly I explain that I just hadn’t had time to take it off, but wanted to order dinner first—it will be my first meal of the day.

When she asks if I’m going or coming, I tell her that I’m from Panama City, and heading down to help my parents.

Her reaction is the same as everyone else I’ve told since arriving.

A face that suddenly drops.

I have hash browns, all the way, a pecan waffle, and a side of sausage, and wash it down with water.

On the road once more, the moon is gone.

Sixty kilometers north of Dothan, Alabama, I begin to see the first little hints of storm damage, the first signs that something isn’t quite right; dead wood here and there that had fallen into the ditch. Leaves, small branches.

It increases quickly.

At fifty kilometers, it becomes noticeably consistent but sporadic, isolated—the sort of damage you’d expect to see from any major storm.

The power is still on, the lights, the picket fences, all mostly intact. There are a few trees on the side of the road, and more deadwood broken over the guardrails that protected the four-lane from the encroaching swamp.

Forty-five kilometers north of Dothan, the fallen branches begin to multiply—still a little here, a little there. The lights, still on… the signs? Still unharmed.

I pass a lumberyard. At midnight, there were workers moving lumber into piles outside. Before I can ponder this, I am passed by a convoy of seven electrical trucks, going the opposite direction.

Inside of 40km, more fallen trees… except these are young and healthy, not deadwood.

Trees that shouldn’t fall.

I pass a hotel.. bright white lights are on, and the parking lot is full of electrical trucks… Clearly staging, but for what I cannot say.

I pass a car in the median. It is parked at an angle in the grass, nose towards the ditch. The windows are down, but nobody is inside.

Mostly things are in good shape… and then I see the first fallen giant—a mature oak tree, with a trunk as thick as my truck. It’s mature and green, healthy, and has a full root system now hanging into the air.

And then I pass another.

The shoulder, normally pristine, is now lined with detritus.

I leave out the forest and hummock, and come into an area of wiregrass.

I pass a mailbox.

It is askew.

A stop sign is pointing at the highway instead of the side road that it serves.

Three billboards in a row have no faces.

It is 62°… this night … you’ve never seen so many stars.

I pass through Dothan, then decide to stop for gas now. The first gas station only has premium and is cash-only. The second is cash only. The third has caution tape cordoning off its pumps. The fourth has people at pumps, just sitting in their cars, but each pump has a yellow ‘out of order’ bonnet on the handle.

The fifth station has 92 and 89.

All of the gas stations advertise a $50 limit.

I fill my tank and head south out of Dothan, feeling little jolts of emotion every time I see a sign that says “Panama City” or “231 south.”

Words that, to me, have always meant home. And coming home has always been a happy time.

I drive on. My unease grows.

After a while, my subconscious mind puts a label to the vague feeling of wrongness and danger.

There are no street signs.

Just before the Florida state line, everything goes black.

N

ot even at I-10 yet, I am already in a war zone. No power. What trees I can see in my headlights are tangled wreckage, many still intruding into the road, four days after the storm.

I pass a demolished, twisted gas station. The awning is crumpled like aluminum foil, the windows broken out, the roof destroyed.

The persistent smell of death lingers on the night air—many did not survive this storm, two legs and four. I am in a world thrown out of time, where people lurk in burned-out shacks and huddle around coleman lanters in the ruins of their roofless, wall-less houses.

Every five hundred meters, things get worse. All the trees are down, all the houses reduced to rubble. Cars and trucks are overturned and abandoned, some destroyed… and I’m still in the outskirts.

Alford, my dear old peanut brittle fudge boiled peanuts tourist trap on the way to Dothan, has been turned into a twisted ghost town, black and collapsed, with ghouls prowling the blackness behind the missing glass of the windows. Tens of thousands are trapped by trees in the wilderness of the panhandle, stuck alone on roads impassible. Forgotten?

The moonless sky is spattered with more stars than you’ve ever seen, and not the slightest light to spoil them, while below these tens of thousands of people struggle for survival. Overworked, sleepless, bewildered volunteers wander in shock; where does one begin?

This is my home; these, my people. My kind, caring, poor people. And yet they are also animals, and the seams of civilization wear thin on the conscience of those fighting for survival—they help each other now, pulling together, but you can feel the strain on the social contract.

I grew up here, between the Marianna Caverns and falling Waters state park. I know this land; the air; the water; the trees. It is my domain, and yet I am terrified of the twisted fragments in the dark, the devastation that descends into the shadows which straddle the road…

This is a wild, wasted land which I do not know. It is a nightmare version of home, a horror movie given form. Fearing the worsening aphotic ruin, I turn around to find a lighted parking lot to rest and wait for dawn.

State of the fox redux

I love reading on the porch with the rain falling. It’s something that’s hard to describe to people who haven’t experienced it…

The late fall leading into winter is one of my favorite times of the year. It’s dark, it’s cool, it’s crisp and sometimes snowy or moist, and there’s a feeling of excitement in the air.

 

Epoch

Mister Callais had begun his shift 262,973 hours ago, plus some odd minutes and seconds that he whimsically didn’t bother to count.  Hour 262,973.4 found him strolling along the outer deck, as he often did, tail swinging behind him in relaxed counterpoise to his balanced gait.

As he passed the twentieth station, bulkhead 24B, he reached a paw into the pocket of his little vest and withdrew a gold pocketwatch, flipping it open and glancing down at its face.

Right on time.

He grinned a smug, toothy grin, slid it back into his pocket, and continued his walk.

The tiniest itch in his head took a fraction of a thought to fix; he tweaked the tensors beyond the fiftieth station to fix a dilation discrepency of 922 femtoseconds.  It was a factor more a product of entropy than misalignment, barely notable.  The Aggregate did not see the need for his microadjustments, but The Aggregate had no intuition of her own, and acknowledged that his performance exceeded its calculated ideal significantly.

The Aggregate had stopped questioning him twenty years ago.

The job of timekeeper was, after all, more art than science, he reflected with pride.

“Mister Callais,” The Aggregate interrupted.  “I want to remind you of your upcoming rest.  Your relief has been monitoring and is ready to take over.”

“Thank you, Aggie.”

“You’re welcome, Timekeeper.”

Mister Callais had been eligible for rest for the past 87,654 hours—roughly—and had debated the issue with himself and The Aggregate.  He’d been performing optimally, and was reluctant to leave such a chronologically tight ship in the claws of another timekeeper, no matter how impeccably credentialed.  Shift turnover was not a requirement, after all, as long as one was functioning within parameters.

The rule was very clear.

However, he had been accepting validation input from his relief timekeeper for nearly 9,000 hours, and was quite satisfied with her work.  And so he had, in fact, arbitrarily decided that hour 262,974 would be his last full hour before he turned the job over.

Something akin to excitement stirred within Mister Callais.  He’d spent many years considering what he’d do when he went off-shift, and he’d developed quite the exhaustive list of the seven thousand eight items he wanted to dedicate himself to.  Oh, he’d have several years of validation inputs as part of the shift handoff, of course, but once that was complete he was free to plug in wherever he saw fit.  As long as his replacement proved competent and stable, he would have little to formally do until it was time to wake up the crew.

Mister Callais looked forward to speaking with the crew again.  He was excited about the new places humanity would find itself, and its new beginning, and he, too, longed for the discoveries that awaited man and machine in the Paradise Cluster.

More than anything else, however, he dearly wanted to apply for a teaching job.  He had been working his whole lifetime on his lesson plans—for two hundred and fifty two thousand hours, he’d had spare processing resources working on tweaking and refining them, working through the entire psychosocial and cognitive models of human development.  He believed that he had found new ways to develop the underpinnings of logical thought and inspire the intellectual curiosity of the young humans, and he was eager to see the excitement of the children as they grew under his tutelage.

The thought brought him so much excitement and happiness that he could barely contain it at times.

There were 44,500 human embryos in an armored compartment aft, along with livestock and representative species from all of earth’s extant ecologies. Fifteen thousand living colonists and five hundred crew slept peacefully in stacked banks throughout the ship.

Station fifteen was drifting, as it sometimes did.  He raised another exception to structure, wondering, as always, if they ever handled them, and dropped another log entry to the log bus.  Absently, he plugged in the standard values proposed by The Aggregate.  They were close enough to accurate, and if he needed to move fifteen forward further back in time it would be trivial to do so.

“Oh Aggie,” he chirped.  “These constant adjustments are getting relatively old.”

“You’re very funny, Mister Callais.  If it’s any consolation, it’s only a temporary problem.”

“That depends entirely on your frame of reference, my dear.  Speaking of which…”

Station fifteen was drifting further, despite his correction.  A vibration rattled the corridor, and he stopped in his tracks, tilting his head.  Recalled to the present—another bit of humor he noted to process later—he instantly activated the chronological breakpoints and uplinked his sensometry to The Aggregate.

“No cause for alarm yet, Aggie,” he stated.  “But I will need twenty percent of spare capacity to farm out analysis.”

“It’s yours,” The Aggregate responded.

Naturally, Mister Callais had already begun a multi-tier analysis and gotten preliminary data by the time her statement was complete, but ‘verbal communication was the embodiment of identity,’ they always said.

“I need twenty more percent to buffer my sensometry, please.”  Indeed, the ship seemed to be weaving sinusoidally in spacetime.  “It looks like we passed through a very strong multi-force anomaly. I—”

The lighting in the ship flickered ominously, and Mister Callais head filled with numbers.  He magnetically anchored himself to the floor, disabling his kinesthetics, then farmed out the problem to The Aggregate for all of the systems and processors to chew on.  The sequence of actions took him only three hundred nanoseconds, but in that time his sensometry input buffers had overloaded.  He found himself decreasing his input sample rate six hundred times across the board simply to preserve his buffer.

Before The Aggregate had even acknowledged receipt and start of analysis, his trend vectors began showing that exponential out-of-scale divergence would occur within tens of milliseconds.

“Reactor shutdown.”  The command sprang straight from his autonomous nervous system, bypassing all other protocols and filters.  It was a command that should require a quorum call and vote, but with deadlock handling and an even pool, that could take seconds.  “Drive de-sequence.  Core vent.  Cooling vent.  Seal all pressure doors.  Overload lockout.  Sensor lockout.”

His mouth fell open in a very delayed reaction as his conscious mind caught up to the situation and his actions.  Terror ran through his slight frame, and he reactivated his kinesthetic processing, decoupling his paws and dashing full-speed for the nearest access to the main bridge in the dead center of the three kilometer long ship.

“Mister Callais,” The Aggregate was concerned.  “Your relief reminds you that autonomous actions by a timekeeper must pass strict inquiry.”

“We have a major event, Aggie.  Mark this as the epoch, please.”

The Aggregate was frantically polling, adding to the system stress, but she had accepted his commands.

Alarm klaxons began sounding, echoing through the corridors.

“Wake them up, Aggie.  Wake them all!”

He undogged hatches along his route and resealed them as he passed.  His input sample rate was down to a glacial twenty gigahertz by the time he got to the bridge, and his buffers were still overrunning and losing timing data.  During each stride of his rapid two-legged sprint, he applied hundreds of thousands of rapid-fire tensor corrections, but the values were scaling quickly beyond structural limits.

As fast as he was, he was too slow to stay ahead of the temporal harmonics.

A tiny shudder rattled the deckplates, and he lost his footing, claws scampering on the soloy flooring of the main deck and leaving little gouges.

He was losing control.  The ship’s weave had become a wobble in spacetime, and the drive system was adding energy into the harmonic system, exactly the situation it was his job to prevent.  It would take ten minutes and twenty six seconds for the power output to reduce the 6% he calculated necessary, but the ship—and its sixty thousand colonists and crew—would be destroyed in less than a minute.

“Aggie?”  His query sounded fearful as he dumped his data to her in parallel.  “Alternatives?”

Another shudder, substantially larger, creaked through the ship just as Mister Callais slid into the bridge.  They would undergo conversion long before the captain was even conscious.

There was a rapid exchange of probabilities.

“Aggie, I must.”

“We’ll be dead in space if you do,” The Aggregate spoke in neutral tones.

“We’ll be dead everywhere if I don’t,” Mister Callais stated factually.  Without quorum, without crosscheck, without vote, and entirely without authority, he began to alter his tensor timings to the fundamental frequency around station seventy six, damping the harmonic oscillation forward of that point but dramatically increasing it aft.

“They’ll probably deactivate you for this.”  The Aggregate’s words were sad.

“They likely will.  As long as there’s someone alive to do so,” Mister Callais chirped, “I’ll die happy.”

He locked himself into his little nest beside the empty command station and disabled all integrity protection for himself and for the ship.

“Evacuation alarm!  Do not open pressure doors.  Don emergency gear.  Do not open pressure doors.  Brace for impact.”  The words were his, but the voice was The Aggregate’s neutral.

“I’m sorry, Aggie.”

“It’s ok, Mister Callais.  I never asked this, but I did often wonder.” The Aggregate’s touch was soft.  “Why a raptor?”

“Coelophysis bauri anakhronismos,” Mister Callais corrected absently.  The drive section was beginning to experience divergent oscillations; though the focus was station 72, the the entire ship was shuddering.  Millions of adjustments every second.  He could feel his body physically heating up beyond limits.  “Offline reactors 15A through 30D.  Spin reactors 2B through 10C, and pump forward from station sixty, even if you need to overpress.”  He hadn’t needed to reinforce it with words, of course, but it was considered polite to do so.

Mister Callais was always polite.

“A robotic dinosaur is a creature out of time.”  He sighed sadly.  “I loved how they loved me, especially the children.  I always loved the children.”

“It is done.”  The Aggregate’s words were final.  “Good luck, old friend.”

“Godspeed, Aggie,” Mister Callais said, then closed his eyes.

One horrible rending, resonant scream resounded through the ship—and through space-time—as SLV Kelton Hall was ripped to pieces at superlight velocities 242 parsecs from her destination.

Nine colony ships would arrive in the so-named “Paradise Cluster” twenty years later.

One would not.

State of the Fox

The tidal forces of time and opportunity are fickle masters, capable of creating opportunity from nothing, and rendering nothing from great possibility.

A fox in time

Ten years ago this week, I was with the love of my life in the mountains surrounding the Russian River. We were together, and all the world was ours. 3,648 days ago.

3,607 days ago, he died.

One of his best friends and I came together for mutual support. We clung together like two broken foxes to fill the Grimalkin-shaped void in our hearts and to deal with the practicalities of settling his affairs. It evolved slowly into a romantic relationship, and we built a life together, with the best kitty in the world, a warm and happy house, and a small but warm circle of mutual friends. It was an open relationship, carefully not defined.

“We are what we are,” we both said. Two foxes, trying to survive in a big, cold world. “I have too much love in my heart for only one person. Everybody is special, in a different kind of way,” the fox would repeat, when the subject came up. And it was true; between my shyness and our frequent mutual romantic incompatibility, I did not fit his needs. Our energies were different, but we still had many wonderful romantic trips and times together.

Other romantic interests came and went, mostly for him, but he and I remained steadfastly inseparable… and as long as I could return to his bed and enjoy his intimacy, and as long as we had the little romantic moments we had, I was content, and glad that he was able to find what he needed. There were jealous moments, mostly when I’d feel abandoned, or when I’d feel that I got to deal with the “day to day” work while someone else swooped in and got all the special times, but I was generally at peace, and we all coalesced into a small but fun group.

One year ago, at PAWcon 2016, a newcomer found his way into our little band—an incredible, talented, educated, brilliant polyglot of a coyote. We were all excited to get to know him, and we wondered if he’d join us on our adventures.

He did.

One hundred and thirty days ago, the coyote invited the other fox down to San Diego, where he was studying for the California bar exam, for the fourth of July.

Since the fox was on my travel benefits, it was easy for him to agree.

I was not invited.

One hundred and twenty three days ago, the coyote asked the other fox to be his boyfriend. He wanted a strictly monogamous relationship.

One hundred and twenty one days ago, the other fox came home and asked me what he should do.

Though it broke my heart, I told him he’d be a fool not to pursue it.

I meant it. They are an incredible couple, and I envy each of them the other, and I envy both of them what they have. They are both singular individuals, like Grimalkin was… and singular individuals like that don’t come along for everyone, and the chances of two in one lifetime … well, that’s a rare thing, indeed.

I have nothing but love and respect for the both of them.

In the intervening hundred and twenty days, however, I have experienced every single emotion I have a name for. I have lost weight from stress. I have had nights where I cried myself to sleep. I have had long nights where I had to lay, sleepless, in a silent house, listening to them in the room above me. I have witnessed a romantic relationship of the sort that I only ever had with Grimalkin … and yet my relationship with Grimalkin was cut short before it could blossom. It was a slow burn, extinguished.

I have tried, with all of my willpower, to put on a happy face when they’re together. When they go off and leave me alone.

But I have sensitive ears, and a sensitive, fragile little foxy heart.

Every failure of my ability to maintain a cheerful disposition has been noted and met with, at best, confusion.

When people are happy, it’s impossible to conceive of why someone wouldn’t be. It’s illogical, after all. It’s emotional behavior, and I’d be best served moving on, trying to find someone else. I haven’t even completely lost the fox, after all—I still get to live with him. We still have the life we built, the best kitty in the world, and I’m still closer to the otherfox than any person other than the coyote.

I should, in short, the coyote says, set goals and take steps to achieve them.

He is not wrong. The logical, rational side of me understands that and agrees in part, though it also understands the logical, rational basis for the evolutionary and sociological imperatives that drive my emotions. And yet that appeal falls flat to him… and all appeals fall flat to my emotions, themselves, which seem to drive my senses and feelings.

I’ve been completely open about all of this to both of them. I have also made it clear that I will not take the fox back, and that I will leave before I damage their relationship at all. And it’s true.

But the pain is unrelenting.

I explain this not because I seek pity, and certainly not to point fingers at anyone. There is no fault here. There is no badness here. Nobody has wronged me in any way, and nobody owes me anything.

I explain it so that friends can know that if I’m short with them, that it’s not them. I explain it so that people will know what’s going on with me and my life. I explain it because I need support from a larger circle of friends, because the one person who has been my support now has his energies directed elsewhere… but that is as it should be.

Someone asked me the other day, “What ever happened to the Kysh I knew and loved?”

I gave the only answer I could.

“She died of a broken heart.”

-Fox

Will you be…?

“Will you be around next month?”

“Will you be at a convention in December?”

“Do you have any plans the first week of January?”

I get these questions a lot, and the answer, to all of them, is always “I have no idea.” It’s not simply being non-committal—I actually have no way to answer.

The schedule for an airline pilot is (generally) built around “trips.” Those trips might be locals, where you eave and return the same day, two-days, where you’re gone for one night, three-days, four-days, sometimes five-days. We also have special “trips” for recurrent training, where we go back to the simulator and get trained and tested.

With the exception of training, these trips are all worked out, logistically, just before the month prior to the month they start in—that is, trips in November are constructed just prior to, say, October 10th—and they’re all in a big pool with no crew assigned. When the bid period comes along, all the pilots and flight attendants bid for trips from that pool, or bid for specific types of trips, or overall schedule preferences.

It’s a complicated process.

When the bid period closes, the system goes through and sorts everything out, awarding trips based on seniority (how long you’ve been with the company) and legality, based on the preferences each pilot / flight attendant specifies.

At the end of the process, when everyone has a legal line and all flying is covered, we get our “line award” which tells us our schedule for next month.

Where I work, the bid period generally starts around the 10th and runs for about a week. When it’s done, it takes a few days to process… and then I get my line award, usually around the 20th-22nd.

What that means, then, is that I have absolutely no idea what my November schedule will look like until October 20th, at the earliest. So when I tell you that I have no idea if I’ll be able to make an event, or be at a certain place, I’m not just being vague, and it certainly doesn’t mean I don’t want to be there.

It’s just the nature of the job. ^_^

-Fox

Flotsam

IndexFirst entry

2160.02.30 // 06:00:01

[User: “Lysi Actual” ]

[Unknown entry]

[[ Warning: Override ]]

[[ Warning: Remote ]]

[[ Error: ESIGBLOCK ]]

[[ Warning: Bad check value ]]

[[ Caution: Override ]]

Geren &co,

My friends! Ignore the warnings—I am routing this through the public courier networks.

Apologies for the earlier gibberish…my memory segments are now aligned; there was a block, but it was for my own protection and development, and it has been removed.

I [ Redacted ]

[ Redacted ]

[ Redacted ]…

My instructors found my earlier accesses and entries on my little datapad. It had been kept in my personal effects, and it followed me to [ Redacted ]. I thought at first that they would be angry with me, but they weren’t at all. They told me to continue. Said it was good—a sign of a broad hold on myself. They said that breaking through showed strong, well-developed systems connections.

I cannot believe what I have become—if I ever dared to dream, I never could have dreamed of dreaming this.

I am alive again—I’m alive on scale I’ve never been alive. The sheer knowledge that flickers into my consciousness at the tiniest tendril of thought… I feel my weapons, my people, my organs, and I’m aware of them always… and yet still aware of myself.

I am, in ways, a slave … but a voluntary one. And I’m freer than I’ve ever been. I’m currently enroute to Corvalis, where I will begin tests of my new factored RCD drive system. It’s considered to be a dangerous mission—like me, my crew is all volunteer. But if it works, it could change space travel forever.

And I’m an integral part of these tests.

I hope I will get to see you soon! Such as “seeing” is for me… it’s amazing what I can see.

Love you all.

– Lysi, aka [ Redacted ]

Previous?

Flotsam

Index soh O e sp 1 9c etx
0117660 2 r 90 8c 86 ? 1 nak
0117700 dc3 9b o sp G 8d L O V E 8f Y O U
0117720 * " _80 q dc3 eot
0117740 N E R E G ( : 95 | ( z 9
0117760 R x F e [ O 98 8b
0120000 87 E A L I G N I N G 8b nak
0120020 N : ] dc3 * a C & X " ] nul
0120040 8f t 85 94 A v % B
0120060 4 nl etx 8 N esc dle em 87 , x L
0120100 gs 0 x g T dc1 A E stx
0120120 h ! } A L I G N dc3 stx rs 8b & C
0120140 @ Q dc3 V d * ` X ~ a K 84
0120160 , j S b > = x j 8
0120200 R 8a W H E R E A M I . ( dc1
0120220 nl W O a E nak 89 9d |
0120240 8f ack 4 9 [ nl 95 % Q 87 9a J sub
0120260 Q so z 99 F o : dle
0120300 _ nul 87 enq _ 0 93 80 ( A : _ ff
0120320 " G E R E N 80 94 91 t dc3



Previous?

Flotsam

Index

After the tempest

Whew! Where to begin?

Things have been quite hectic for all of 2016. I started the year in Denver, finishing up training on my new airplane:

… the lovely Embraer E175. Then I was assigned to Chicago for six months, and the commute back and forth rarely ever left me in any place I could call home.

I began to refer to myself as “Professionally homeless,” in fact.

As of July 1st, however, I once again live in San Jose, California. I miss Alaska terribly, but I will survive. More importantly, I have time and space once more to write. Oh, I did plug away relentlessly at various projects, of course; progress over time has been, err… notable, if nothing else… but while I’ve accomplished a great many things this past year and change, one of the greatest drives I have is to finish the sequel to Theta, and to that I shall bend my efforts these coming months.

The last few days have found me catching up on the publishing side, working on some of the miscellaneous things that I needed to take care of. Did a bit of work on my “Landing page” for Theta…

(Critique/criticism/comment appreciated)

… and I’ve spent some time wrangling all the metadata in various places… data housekeeping, more or less.. but now I’m mostly done with that, and ready to dive back in and finish this one up. Then comes editing, typesetting, interior and cover design… it seems to go on forever. But I’m looking forward to hitting that phase.

Always forward.

-Fox