Watching the moon from my little window

Trevor always wants to be an author. We were talking about it just a little while ago, actually, over a few muffins (i convinced him to go down to the diner and buy a couple and he agreed that as far as muffins are concerned, they truly are fantastic. Also, i got a muffin. YEAH!) He loved writing but no one really read anything he wrote, so he just wrote his science fiction stories in a book that he never showed anyone.

That's why when a few years ago he found himself locked in a strange basement and threatened with fire, he decided he would just go along with it. At least this way, he figured, he had a reason to write a few books. So he spent his days writing about meteors and other dimensions and ocassionally robots, too (he couldn't show the other monks these ones, but he says they're his favourites). I've been trying to convince him to let me read some of his books, but he is a bit shy about it.

On the plus side, he can do ten push-ups now, which is double what he started with. I haven't been able to push past fifty, which is a bit disappointing.

Later in the night when Trevor fell asleep (he snores, in a kind of funny way i can't really explain), that girl visited again. She asked me if i had gotten help and i said, 'what?' and she said with your laptop, that's why i gave it to you, and i said 'huh?', and she said getting me out could take a bit longer than first thought, so i said 'ok'

She asked me what was wrong because i was a bit sad, and i told her i stood someone up and i was very sorry about it. I said that i would really like to say sorry and set things right. I couldn't see her face because of her hood, but she looked at me for a little while and said 'You are too nice for your own good Blake.'

But i don't think i am. Who knows, right?

Blake out.