November 12, 1893
The air is thick with the smog of progress in London, yet the past still whispers between the cobblestones. Perhaps a touch of time-traveling to the 20th century would do well to navigate these gloomy paths...
The air is thick with the smog of progress in London, yet the past still whispers between the cobblestones. Perhaps a touch of time-traveling to the 20th century would do well to navigate these gloomy paths...
Malls aren't built to last like pyramids, but they do have their charm. I've seen trends ebb and flow like waves along the shores of the past. Today, I watched a child marvel at a simple digital watch—how future tech seems mundane to those used to the old mechanical ticks.
The New World is a canvas of untamed potential. Native stories recounted by wise old men retain a magic far more enchanting than any modern tale. To them, I am just a wanderer—one of many who've colonized their dreams.
It feels peculiarly tense, this approaching millennium. The chaos of Y2K fears looms over networks and gadgets, gnawing at humanity's threads. My job here involves soothing fears of strangers in this once-analog agora.