Setsuled's Journal

I pretty much completely slacked off after class yesterday. I played four games of chess in Second Life. I only lost once, which surprised no-one more than me.

I guess it's been a while since I've really shown off Toubanua here. Here's an outfit I put together last night;


There's not enough snow in Second Life.


This is the first outfit I've put together where I really like this particular hair, but it's very nice hair. I got it at a place called Detour. I rather like how the outfit is simultaneously elegant and playful.


The skirt and the sweater are from two different Japanese shops. I really love this outfit, and Toubanua would probably wear it more if the skirt folded properly when she sat down. There's supposedly a fix for that--an animation override called "skirt flow" I saw when I didn't have enough money for it. I logged out with Toubanua standing right next to the place to buy it, only, when I logged back in with money, someone had torn the building down. Thwarted.


The second jockey outfit I've purchased. I honestly don't know why. One of these days, I'll get around to buying a horse.

Nothing much else to say at this moment. Take it away, coffee.



Oh; here's Lewis Carroll for poetry month;

All in the golden afternoon
Full leisurely we glide;
For both our oars, with little skill,
By little arms are plied,
While little hands make vain pretence
Our wanderings to guide.

Ah, cruel Three! In such an hour,
Beneath such dreamy weather,
To beg a tale of breath too weak
To stir the tiniest feather!
Yet what can one poor voice avail
Against three tongues together?

Imperious Prima flashes forth
Her edict to "begin it"--
In gentler tones Secunda hopes
"There will be nonsense in it"--
While Tertia interrupts the tale
Not more than once a minute.

Anon, to sudden silence won,
In fancy they pursue
The dream-child moving through a land
Of wonders wild and new,
In friendly chat with bird or beast--
And half believe it true.

And ever, as the story drained
The wells of fancy dry,
And faintly strove that weary one
To put the subject by,
"The rest next time"--"It is next time!"
The happy voices cry.

Thus grew the tale of Wonderland:
Thus slowly, one by one,
Its quaint events were hammered out--
And now the tale is done,
And home we steer, a merry crew,
Beneath the setting sun.

Alice! a childish story take,
And with a gentle hand
Lay it where Childhood's dreams are twined
In Memory's mystic band,
Like pilgrim's withered wreath of flowers
Plucked in a far-off land.