*Deep breath and…* AAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHH!

If you’re as yet unaware of the Blisland Massacre I seriously suggest you first read the summary, or, even better, the full story. A lot has happened since september, so there’s also a brief timeline outlining the more important and/ or bizarre events of my life in recent times. Join me; let’s not let the cries of over a hundred deaths go unheard – Taz

Shortly after the last post I thought I was finally coming into some luck when I received an email from the folks at omniglot.com. If you cast your mind back to when I was first attempting to decipher the Hawkstor Papers, Omniglot was the site that identified the runes as Old Gutnish and provided the translation “star god of Stord.” On saturday I received an email from them stating:

Dear Taran,

Following your somewhat intriguing email last month one of our more intrepid omniglots has been studying the scripts with some amount of fervour. While the proto-chinese still remains a mystery, the bulk of the script, written in what you assumed to be some form of Urdu, and what we initially took to be an Urdu-Hebrew hybrid, has been matched to Tocharian, albeit a rather curious representation thereof. You’ll have to forgive the delay in getting this to you as the somewhat wild flourishes and embellishments made it more than a little difficult to correctly identify it. Tocharian, an extinct and extremely obscure system, was discovered only relatively recently, so you can imagine how excited we are to have such an example as this to study; an excitement which is only amplified by the singular hand and contemporary setting in which it was written,  and by the mystery surrounding its discovery.

We, that is myself and the members of the forum, ask if you could possibly provide us with the original script so that they may be studied more closely. In return we will be only too happy to translate the passages in full. This way the papers may help you in the investigations you mentioned previously just as they will help us investigate this enigmatic linguistic fossil.

For now it may interest you to know that while Tocharian is very much in the Indo-european tradition, the people who spoke occupied an area of land that now forms part of North Western China. Secondly, while the earliest examples of the language only date back as far as the 6th-8th century AD, the Tocharian race appears in history as far back as the 2nd-1st centuries BC, meaning that the Tocharian language, or some earlier form of it, may well have existed alongside what we now call Oracle Bone Script and may even have co-existed with the example of proto-chinese you submitted to us.

I hope this helps you and your reading and I look forward with great anticipation to you reply.

Simon Ager,

and the omniglot community.

While this little revelation doesn’t actually help me at all, right now at least, it’s interesting as hell, right? That’s ancient China implicated twice in this whole affair. However, unless the whizzes at omniglot manage to translate the text it still leaves me pulling my hair out looking for a lead to follow. In the mean time here are the links to the alphabet and those it was mistaken for. But before you have a look just be aware that the Tocharian script I had has significantly more tails, spikes and so on. Hebrew. Tocharian. Urdu. Simon also provided me with this link to an awesome site about Tocharian.

In the mean time, with the promise of new information from the Hawkstor papers I decided to set about those sheets that remain with me with a renewed fervour. For now I’ve focused what time I had reading into that wonderful Gutnish phrase “star god of Stord,” and have done so with minimal returns. I still can’t find anything in norse mythology that ties to stars without involving the discarded frost-bitten toes of Thor’s mate, Aurvandil.

This in mind I decided to split my inquiry, focusing in turn on the two components individually, that is Stord and Gotland (home of the language). Unfortunately this has brought little to bear. The only historical significance to be found in Stord comes screaming out of the 10th century. The Battle of Fitjar (Stord) took place there in 961 AD and saw the fall of the ubiquitous Erik the Blood-Axe by the host of his half-brother, Haakon the Good, third King of Norway, who also died as a result of injuries sustained during the conflict. This, however, is entirely a matter of history and has nothing to do with stars or gods and even Stord’s involvement seems to be entirely coincidental. For a land littered with peaks and tarns and what have you, Stord appears to be a mythologically dead land.

As for Gotland. Well, there’s a lot more mysticism there, but most of it seems to be wrapped up with these actually quite awesome hammar stones. But, again, no allusions to stars are made. Rather they seem to tell the story of Hildr, who was taken to Hoy, in Orkney Islands. The battle the ensued to recapture her saw the death of her father, so Hildr, in her grief, stayed around and resurrected the dead fight on until the Ragnarok, thus the eternal battle “Hjaðningavíg” came to be. Don’t worry though, the curse was broken with the arrival of Christianity… apparently.

If nothing else, I know that if “star god of Stord” a genuine reference to something, it’s not the sort of thing I’m likely to find in any conventional work.

In the mean time, I’ve got myself the names of a couple of  hypnotherapists. Now I just need to find the time to see them.

Until then, rest assured, I will be pulling my hair out and screaming into buckets, which I will then burn in the hope that the frustration within does not infect the world around me and send me round the frickin’ bend.

Taz

Well… Fudge!

If you’re as yet unaware of the Blisland Massacre I seriously suggest you first read the summary, or, even better, the full story. A lot has happened since september, so there’s also a brief timeline outlining the more important and/ or bizarre events of my life in recent times. Join me; let’s not let the cries of over a hundred deaths go unheard – Taz

I’m not going to lie to you; I’ve got nothing. I’ve been over all the associated crap I’ve accumulated and all I’ve come up with is an interesting, but largely useless tidbit concerning burial traditions.

If you recall the post in which I shared the notes I retained after my abyssal freak out below St. Petersinsel, I went into a bit of depth concerning the orientation and positioning of the skeletons. Here’s the thing: the orderly bodies laid out neat, shrouded and face up, these are probably normal burials. There’s a good chance that the feet are directed east with the heads to the west; a standard practice that mirrors the traditional layout of a church, which in turn is tied up with the idea of greeting Christ upon his second coming. This in mind, it seems obvious then that the bodies that were prone and/or face down were quite obviously desecrated – an idea backed up by the lack of shrouds and the presence of foreign objects amongst the remains. In particular, the idea that something or someone could bring priests not only to murder but to potentially use crucifixes as weapons is baffling. I can’t find any non-symbolic reference to crucifixes being used as weapons, which means it’s time for guess-work. The only things I can think of is that either the situation, whatever it may have been, was so dire as to drive the monks to the extremes of desperation, or that whatever happened was deemed so extraordinarily unholy that the use of crucifixes as weapons was necessary.

This is of course wild(ish) speculation that makes a few assumptions, not least of which being that the notes I made are genuine and unsullied by my intoxication and imagination. And, of course, there are no details on the placement of the foreign items, so it’s wholly possible that, originally placed out of respect, they naturally ended up within the bodily frame as the flesh decayed- not that this accounts for the presence of cutlery, nor for any items found in broken skulls.

Perhaps the most eerie observation from these notes is that a few of the skeletons appeared to be “chained in with limbs overflowing into the aisle.” While this sounds too utterly fantastic to contemplate with even the smallest measure of rationality, if true it could well suggest live burial; at least that’s the only reason I’ve come up with so far.

As an annoying aside, I decided to apply my newfound knowledge of burial tradition to the unmarked graves in Hirschwald, and you’ll never guess what! I learned that I should really start taking more thorough notes. I have no idea how the headstones were orientated, neither can I even remember what time I found them nor the direction of the sun/ shadows in relation to the headstones. A bit of a shame, as had I been able to deduce them to be facing west rather than east it may have added some credence to the conjecture above. Thorough notes, Taz! How many times are you going to have to learn this lesson?

And that’s all. I’ve got, essentially, nothing. Perhaps it’s time I start seriously looking into regressive hypnotherapy or dream analysis or whatever. I can’t see I’m going to get a fresh led from anywhere else.

Taz

Down but Far From Out.

If you’re as yet unaware of the Blisland Massacre I seriously suggest you first read the summary, or, even better, the full story. A lot has happened since september, so there’s also a brief timeline outlining the more important and/ or bizarre events of my life in recent times. Join me; let’s not let the cries of over a hundred deaths go unheard – Taz

It would seem that, after a whirlwind couple of months, the leech lines have finally gone slack and the sails drooped impotently deckwards. I am, or course, referring to my pursuit of the truths surrounding Blisland and not to any inadequacies in the more lascivious arenas of life. The last post, detailing the exchange between myself and former BBC editor, Douglas Kemp, was written and posted on my arrival back at my own humble dwellings in Bromley, and I’ve been here ever since. Though I’ve got maddening urges to continue my pan-european inquiries I am, for now at least, well and truly, absolutely, unequivocally, without doubt, question or argument, and any other synonyms relating to the six preceding adverbs but for now let’s end this with “very,” static.

There are a couple of issues. The first is, somewhat predictably, money, as in: I have none. Not a penny. Not to spare at any rate. For this reason I have to go back to work, of the real, wage earning variety. This means anything up to 10 weeks stranded and blind while I slog my way through the super camp, glittering, gilty pleasures of panto season. But so long as I have no fun whatsoever I should be able to work up a couple of grand to fund the madness.

Secondly, and this is only semi-serious, some of the things Douglas Kemp had to say have been stewing around the old noodle. He said that I could still forget all this, that the memories and the nightmares would fade. Well yesterday was the first day in which I didn’t think about any of this. Cornwall and St Petersinsel and all that noise may just as well have been on another planet for all the heed I payed them. What’s more, and perhaps this is what reminded me of it all, I woke up perfectly normally this morning. No sweats, no starts, cramps, paralysis or thrashing; I merely woke up with the sun on my face and, upon rising, a spring in my step. It wasn’t long before this struck me as odd as since my “episode” I’ve woken every morning (often just before morning) from myriad nightmares (hence the sweating, cramping thrashing business, which I don’t think I’ve before mentioned.) For the first time in what must be weeks I slept soundly and without the id fuelled carnage of my night time neurological shenanigans. And this got me thinking about whether or not this is necessarily a good thing. Do I actually want to forget? I mean, I’m on to something here, something sort of big-ish. Do I think there’s an inherent madness to it and the involvement of dark gods, frayed world fringes and black operations ? Well, no, in a word, I don’t. Sorry, Doug, if you’re still reading this, but I don’t. And why not? Because there’s no such things as that sort of crap. Regardless of the notes I’ve read and the places I’ve been, I’m beginning to believe more and more that this is all very, very human. Who knows what kind of human, be it military, corporate, government, or even something as absurd as Freemasons or the “Illuminati,” but human nonetheless. But star gods out of Stord and madness out of the mountains and all that guff, it’s all just pictures in the sky, something a human has conjured up to make sense of something they don’t understand.

That said, all I need is money and, bringing me neatly to the third point, a lead, because right now I posses precisely squat of both. I’m going to continue combing my subterranean notes and the Hawk’s Tor Papers, not to mention the previous posts of this blog, just in case I’ve overlooked something. Also, and this came to me this morning upon realising my freedom from nightmares, I’m beginning to wonder whether my dreams might hold some sort of key. Douglas seemed fairly adamant that there actually was something beneath Sankt Petersinsel. Seeing that the nightmares came after that episode it only stands to reason that the two are related, that my subconscious is repressing and or processing whatever took place down there. In all likelihood this is just the psychological scarring from the terror of bumbling around drunkenly and blindly in the belly of a creepy, abandoned monastery. However, it might be worth going to a hypnotist or a dream therapist or someone like that, see if we can’t bring something to the surface. Who knows, maybe I will see the many tentacled face of a dark, thread pulling, world fraying god of maddening proportions Wooooo woooooo woooooo. (That would have had a lot more effect if you could see me wave my arms around, pretending to be a ghost while doing it. Also, if I’d saved it for Hallowe’en.)

Taz

In the Interest of a Head Start

If you’re as yet unaware of the Blisland Massacre I seriously suggest you first read the summary, or, even better, the full story. A lot has happened since september, so there’s also a brief timeline outlining the more important and/ or bizarre events of my life in recent times. Join me; let’s not let the cries of over a hundred deaths go unheard – Taz

Maybe you were expecting to hear something from me a bit sooner, maybe a write up of the meeting I had in my room on saturday. That’s what this is. I gave my word to postpone this post by a few nights to give them a “head start.” Three nights seemed like a fairly reasonable handicap as I’m fairly sure that with three days at your disposal you can get to almost anywhere in the world… twice. What follows is a transcript of the majority of the meeting, (certain bits I’ve left out or delayed by request other bits are just plain boring. For instance I’ve left out the first 5 minutes or so because it’s literally just me wrestling with my guest about what they should call me (as opposed to “Mr. Wilmore”.))

DK: Well, Taz, my name is Douglas Kemp, former editor for BBC News, Cornwall, and I’m here to both warn and encourage you.

Me: Both?

DK: What you’re doing, this, I suppose, investigation you seem hell-bent on conducting. What you’re doing is stupid, irresponsible, insane and it will – and don’t even begin to consider that I may be in any way joking or exaggerating when I say this – it will, absolutely, completely, destroy you. You will be broken, the fragments scattered and forgotten. You’re almost on the cusp of something, something I, regrettably, have already become far too involved in. If you keep digging you will eventually hit something, and at that point it’s too late to replace the sod and walk on [I didn't have the heart to comment on the mixed metaphors], alright? You get into this thing much further, you lose. You will be lost to this world as you know it. You will see it as it really is and I can promise you that you will not like what you see. If you get to the fringes of our world you will see how frayed the edges are, how loosely the threads are held together, how the artful tugging of a few could cause so much to unravel. What’s more you will see what’s there, what there is to do that tugging.

Me: I…

DK: Don’t take me for a fool or a madman, though by now I am perhaps both. I’m not here to throw about the garbage of David Icke and his bloody lizard men, or even the mindless rhetoric of ill written, anachronistic goat hearder dogma, though both have a certain… Look, the old adage, ignorance is bliss, is one that has haunted my every thought for… FUCK! It’s only been a month, a single fucking month, but it could just as easily have been years. I’m only 26, you know?

Me: Yeah, I’d say that’s about right.

DK: Exac… what? Really?

Me: Sure. You look tired more than anything else.

DK: [laughs for a while] Sleep. [laughs a bit more - nb. not quite maniacal] Sleep’s something you’ll learn to do without unless you walk away now.

Me: You don’t sleep?

DK: Of course I do. If I didn’t sleep I’m sure I’d be insane. I don’t sleep much though. There comes a point when the body absolutely has to shut down, but those few hours are wracked with the sort of visions and sensations, the sort of unimaginable horror that puts a person off voluntary rest. You’ve been having nightmares. Did you have any last night?

Me: I’ve had nightmares every night since my episode in Switzerland. I just assumed it was the old unconscious mind trying to piece together what the booze addled conscious-

DK: -If only you only; do you have any idea just how; the crypt of; FUCK! You’ve got some serious; Fuck, Taz! Don’t even get me started on that.

Me: Why? It’s clear you won’t be able to continue it.

DK: [does that thing by which one opens their mouth to say something but quickly changes their mind and falls into silence.]

Me: Alright, that was the warning you were going to give me, I suppose, so, um, why don’t we just go from the start. You said you worked for the BBC.

DK: Right, yes, that’s the other thing. I’m the guy that published the Blisland story on the website.

Me: …What?

DK: I edited the story and published it that monday morning.

Me: I… but… this is huge. It’s massive, gargantuan in fact. You do understand that this is where it all started. Everything. All of it. This is why I’m here, in Germany. It’s why I have various bruises and these burns on my hand and maybe why I’ve got nightmares. It’s why… everything. That one story changed everything. I don’t even know if I have a home and a girlfriend any more.

DK: Believe me. Everything is not done-

Me: -Sure, whatever. Just consider this, right? Just this one thing, just consider it. Ok? … Why the druids?

DK: What?

Me: Why even suggest any possible druidic implication? I thought the BBC was supposed to be ethnically and, and… dammit there’s no word for it. Sensitive to both ethnicity and creed alike? Why even mention druids; because, you know, that’s the only reason I ever sounded off about the article. Sure, all that massacre crap was shocking, but I only really cared because you felt it appropriate to suggest possible druid involvement. I mean, why did you feel the need to write that in-

DK: -I didn’t write the article, I only edited it.

Me: Fine. Why did you feel the need to leave it in?

DK: I…

Me: Come on. Why? Why would you leave in something as potentially inflammatory as that.

DK: Well, I mean, come on. It’s not like that actually matters any more. If you only knew how insignificant it is.

Me: Insignificant? Inisgnificant? For christing out fuck balls [yes, that's actually what I said], that’s the be all and end all. That’s it. It. That’s why I got wrapped up in this lunacy. I’m here now, in Bavaria, I’ve been to a remote swiss hotel, the lake district and to a nowhere-bloody-sville in backwater Cornwall, all because of that idiotic, irresponsible, throw away accusation. So I apologise if I’m harping on about this a tad, but to me it’s not insignificant at all. In fact, considering that a few days ago I had to [what happens in Bavarian forests stays in Bavarian forests] because I was so hungry, that I’ve lost 36 hours of my life to the Swiss subterrene, that I have stolen and spent [*ahem*] pounds to travel around and pursue the twisted fantasy unravelling before me, I would say that not only is that single omission of editorial capability significant, I would hazard so far as to suggest that is was, in fact and to me at least, very fucking significant indeed. So why, Mr. Douglas Kemp, of BBC Cornwall, did you leave in the bit about the druids?

DK: I…

Me: Why?

DK: I dunno, I guess, You know, I…

Me: Why, Douglas? Tell me why, now, right now!

DK: I guess I just had a slack morn…ing.

[half minute pause]

DK: It made a certain amount of sense at the time.

[I pour out a couple of scotches]

Me: So, if I’m to quite grasp this: my life, a simple and small life admittedly – one of quiet geekery, vocal sophistry and complex, interesting friendships – was seized by the ankle and dipped in a flushing toilet because, and I quote, you had, wait for it… “a slack morning?” That’s why? That’s all it was. That’s why I I’m-

DK: -the one in the million, Taz. You’re the one in the million. Do you honestly think anyone else would have pursued the story as doggedly as you have? Most people would have given up once the story was pulled, everyone else would have left it at the letter from the BBC; but you.. you’re the rare kind of maniac that pursues it. But while you hold onto that life you speak of it’s not too late to go back to it. I’ve given you my warning. If you stop this now you can go back to all that. It’s not yet too late to have it all again – just walk away. Look, Taz, I’m not going to give this warning again. This is it. This is your last chance to resume your place as a face in the crowd, brick in the wall, digit on the census. You walk away now and I promise you’ll forget. The wounds will heal, the nightmares will fade and the memory will decay.

Me: From what, though? What am I walking away from, that’s all I need to know. Is this real or is it in the minds of madmen?

DK: The second you know what this is, is the same second that you can no longer walk away. Do what I couldn’t and leave it alone.

Me: Oh, come on? What can be that big?

DK:[brief pause] After I published the article I way pulled aside by some people, some suits. I was sworn to silence, under some act or protocol or charter I had never heard of, I was sworn to secrecy, under pain of death. The next day, I saw the girl who wrote the story and she couldn’t even recall ever writing the damned thing, and I seriously grilled her, for over an hour. I won’t tell you her name, I’d hate for it to end up in your report, it would only distress her. But I’m here, talking to you at the risk of my own life; that’s how big this is.

[thoughtful pause]

Me: Bollocks. What a load of-

DK: [what was actually said was considerably more violent and flagrantly profane] -You have no idea. You have absolutely no idea what you’re getting yourself into here. I do, I really do, I know it so much it hurts; kills. I’ve given you my warning, but just because you chose to ignore it, for now, that doesn’t mean I’m going divulge the details. If you really want to know, I have no doubt you’ll gather wits enough to figure it out for yourself. Being a keeper of secrets is one thing, but I’m not going to be the one to shoulder the burden of sharing such things with someone who may or may not be ready for them; such an act would be tantamount to murder, I assure you.

Me: For what little that means. Why can’t you tell me what’s going on. Why can’t you just step up and give me the absolution I need.

DK: Because I have a conscience.

Me: Fine. I absolve you; now tell me what I’m on to.

DK: No, absolutely not.

Me: I don’t care, whatever it is, I don’t care. I absolve you; now tell me.

[a very long pause]

DK: I’m a dead man, Taz. Not only through what I know and the nature of such things as I know, but I am physically a dead man, it’s only a matter of time. I told you I was sworn under pain of death. Well, by telling you, I’m officially dead. I’m at an end and will be stricken accordingly. The single fact that my treason is not yet known and that [censored by request], that’s the only reason I’m not actually physically dead. It’s for this that ask you not to publish this conversation for a while. You can guarantee that they’re keeping an eye on you, and your work is the only way that they’ll know what I’ve done. Don’t get any silly ideas, like not writing up our meeting, I’m here not only to warn you, but because I want to be heard too. Once I’ve had my say, that’s fine, I’ll accept whatever comes, all I ask is for a few days head start.

Me: Ok, but a head start on who? Who are these people?

DK: They’re no one, and they don’t exist. Never go looking for them.

Me: But now you’ve mentioned th-

DK: Forget it. If you decide, against all sense and wisdom, against all experience and warning, to pursue this, they’ll find you themselves.

Me: And are they what’s “on the fringe,” pulling at the frayed edges, and all that?

DK: [laughs] Have you ever heard the phrase: swing and a miss? [I nod] Well, not only did you miss, but you’re in the wrong stadium altogether and just brained a footballer.

Me: No doubt he dived  and started clutching at his shin before I could actually hit him.

DK: [laughs. A genuine laugh sounds almost alien from such a drawn and serious man]

Me: Ok. so what about everything else? Can you tell me anything else. Like, what about what I read on the Hawk’s Tor papers, the Star god of Stord, and all that. Or, for that matter, Blisland. What actually happened there?

DK: No, I can’t really tell you anything more about Blisland. At this point you know about as much as I do. The details have been well cloaked. I could, however, offer an educated guess. But like everything else you’ve had hints at, to reveal anything would be to reveal too much. I won’t seal your fate like that.

Me: But-

DK: -No, I absolutely won’t. It’s not going to happen; I simply cannot do that to another person. Taz, I have said just about all I am prepared to say. Only three things remain, and they’re the most important of all.

Me: Yes?

DK: Yes. The first is that you are so incredibly, unbelievably, unaccountably lucky to be alive right now, to the sort of degree you won’t even begin to fathom. I won’t say why, all I’ll say is that I’ll never know how you managed it.

Me: Why? Is there something still in Blisland? Is it the people? Are they… no. Did something really happen down in-

DK: -secondly. While I’ve warned you to walk away from this path, the journalist in me encourages you. While you will undoubtably be lost and everything you hold dear, and I mean the things you truly, truly, unconsciously hold dear, will unravel around you; if you can keep writing about it for long enough. I don’t know. Maybe, if enough people know the truth, it’ll change. Maybe it needs to be blown open, for all of man to face.

Me: Can we go back to the bit-

DK: -and finally, I want to reiterate everything. What happened in Blisland, actually happened. What happened in Wasdale, Petersinsel and here, they too happened. You’ll be a fool to follow them; a hero to report them. But, and this is paramount, whatever happens, whatever you decide and whatever you do and cause to happen, whatever the outcome of this meeting, you absolutely must not publish the write-up immediately. I’ve lost more than you can, for now, imagine, but that doesn’t mean I want to actually die any time soon. Do not write this up too soon. Good luck.

[he leaves without waiting for a reply]

And that was that.

Taz

Basically Nothing, but with Sauce.

If you’re as yet unaware of the Blisland Massacre I seriously suggest you read the summary here first before going on. Alternatively, there’s the full story to read here, if you prefer. Slogging through the backlog to get completely up to date can be a nightmare, so I’ll try to get a timeline written once I get back from europe – Taz.

Four days of exploring one small patch of Bovarian forest has left me, apart from noticeably leaner, with very little to go on. Well, very little so far. What I did find was, wait for it and prepare yourself… an actual abandoned graveyard. Can you believe it. When I mentioned that I was keeping my eye out for that sort of thing back in Wasdale Head I can admit to a touch of the tongue in cheek, so to actually find one is, frankly, a little mindbending.

Of course, whether it bares any relation to what I’m looking into is another point entirely. In one way it seems wholly possible as as far as i can gauge, the graveyard seems to be located part way between Hirschwald and Lohe (the men of which allegedly helped in the fight against whatever happened here.) However it’s impossible to say one way or the other because the graves are completely unmarked save for plain, roughly hewn headstones.

So what does this all mean? I’m too broke to continue on to Gotland or Stord so I have to make do with the three feeble pieces of evidence that merely help to support some of the content of the Hawk’s Tor Papers. A vague throw away comment from Wasdale Head, a drunken episode and some unfounded notes from Switzerland and some conveniently placed unmarked graves in germany: they answer no questions, lend no real credence to anything nor do they provide any new leads. All I’m left with is a bank account approaching the red, a few scrapes and bruises and a small set of recurring nightmares which flee me in the morning.

I do, however, have one other thing – the sauce mentioned in the title of this post. When I got back the manager passed me a note that had been left for me. Somebody, in Germany, knows me by name and wants to meet me tomorrow.

To tazw,

I would like to meet you so that we may talk. I’ll come to your room midday, the day after you get back. Don’t worry, I’ll know when you get back.

Hoping you’ll be there.

A little ominous, sure, especially the whole “I’ll know when you get back” bit. But judging from the use of “tawz,” I imagine they know me through this blog. So If you’re reading this, I’ll see you tomorrow at noon.

Tazw