Budsday, 1 Anthuary

Earned 36 / Spent 16

Savings 16,420

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There is a tram that trundles from the thoroughfare to the other side of Kernel, under the old stone bridges by the industrial quarter.  It goes past the verdant foliage of the jungle’s edge; wet leaves brush against the windows.  I feel like a cheat getting across town this way – a courier needs to always be on his feet – but there is regular work at the other side that I need if I am ever going to rejoin Foist in Metrodon.

I have hardly saved.  Fixing up the new place is a drain on money; I watch my savings get eaten away, torn down the middle.  The treehouse wasn’t a good place and now I am on Capital Hill, and I can fill the place with Foist’s carpelwork work and be happy, be myself.  But every seed spent is a seed not saved, and I watch the tin cans get emptier and emptier.

It won’t be this way forever; after a few more weeks there will be a balance and I can continue to save.  Meanwhile, courier work is there in the financial district, a place that feels brand new where the buildings are being made taller, and there is more glass to reflect the sunlight and the Disc.  Like anyplace (particularly Kernel) some days it feels clean and full of energy; others it is a drab place, drizzly so close to the mountains, and I’m not sure I like it much.

The work is part of an initiative.  I’ve been accepted on merit, I suppose – chew enough root, run enough miles, you get a glimpse of recognition.  Once aboard, you are expected to chew more and run further.  There are not more seeds in it – barely a caraway or ten – and the tram fares eat enough of that away to make me wonder if it really is worthwhile. 

And out here, I am further away from my memories of Foist, who in my imagination sits alone.