Mon, 05 Mar 2007 03:06:52 GMT

Haynes has spent much of the winter in his room, coming down mostly when it is necessary, sometimes a little more for the sake of courtesy. He isn't quite ready to emerge, but he leaves the door open today and sits on his bed reading. He goes to turn the page and then pulls his hand away quick as it sparks, dropping the book onto the quilt. It smokes a little but does not catch, leaving the edges only a little singed, and Haynes holds his hands in the air a moment as if reluctant to touch anything.

He should be used to this by now.

Sat, 15 Apr 2006 18:03:52 GMT

[Enter HAYNES, his expression strained, his posture hunched as if in anticipation of something awful. Under better circumstances, he might look something like this, but as is he does not smile, and he is thinner, dishevelled, frightened. When he speaks, his tone is soft, apologetic, as if he is afraid of bringing his troubles into a new place.]

Excuse me. Does anyone know of somewhere I could stay? Somewhere safe. Just for a little while. I need--

[A huge electric shock runs through him, and something like lightning jumps around his slight frame. HAYNES doubles over in pain, a low groan escaping him.]

Don't tell anyone I'm here. Please.

Typist: Haynes is from Sam Shepard's play The God of Hell.