  Since my first day at Second Life, I've been talking to this guy Jeroen. He's Dutch, actually, but his English is incredible; and for ME to say that about someone, you know it's gotta be good. In any case, we talk a lot. Good talks, not just "how was your day" talks. He said he'd been wanting to write me a letter, and he finally sent it to me...
So here it is. -------------------------------------------------------------------- This could have been about fences and third parties -------------------------------------------------------------------- First, we have to go back in time for about a week. Chrestomanci's gruesome act, to put it mildly, of suddenly leaving Jeroen all by himself in a hot tub in the heat of the night, has yet to be performed, and everything is still looking shiny and bright. Furthermore, we change locations. Right before us we see Jeroen Rock, an impressive natural phenomenon not far from the Second Life newbie arena. It's dawn. Or dusk. That's actually hard to tell. In all directions brown colours are expanding. The moon turned yellow again, and judging by it's reflection water is near, though all that's displayed is a giant field of mud.
Apparently it's time for another CPU-upgrade. Jeroen Rock can't be meant to look like this. Not unless we're confronted with a masterful, cynical work of symbolism. Chrestomanci, wearing her familiar blue jeans and green shirt, is sitting somewhere on the rock, and explains why she never burned her diaries, manifesting herself as a slightly self-satisfied humanist along the way. Jeroen is walking up and down the rock to make the impression he's busy. If he could be a humanist, he'd underestimate the value of money too.
But his eyes are open. Oh yeah, Jeroen. Several minutes later the already not too pleasant silences have turned into pain. Even Chrestomanci has stopped talking, for some mysterious reason. Speak! Jeroen imagines shouting to her. Then it dawns on him. The one-legged girl and the Robin Hood - Elf - Dwarf - Whatever crossover! They are needed, and they are needed badly. But they're gone. Jeroen stops moving. There is nothing to move to anyway.
Jeroen Rock isn't much bigger than Jeroen himself. He clears his throat. "We need a third party," he says. Or actually, he whispered it. We enter the domain of fiction. "A third party? " Chrestomanci asks, quickly but casually running a hand through her hair... "Elaborate. " "Elaborate please. " "Elaborate, please. " Language is not mathematical. Language is a form of warfare. "I was thinking of this," Jeroen says. He takes a seat, close to Chrestomanci, but distant at the same time.
At least his parents taught him manners. He clears his throat again. English would have been a more useful lesson Then Jeroen starts typing, stops typing, continues typing, erases the whole sentence, and repeats this process several times. One, two, three, more, minutes pass by. Finally, and almost unexpected - Chrestomanci is already IM-ing a TSO friend to discuss the new fluffy rabbit shoes they got - a message appears on screen.
"I'm sorry," it says. "I think game is gonna crash. " A second message, saying: "+the," immediately follows. Chrestomanci remains silent for a moment, probably appalled by this astounding anticlimax, then she replies: "Awwww. :/ ". She's such a friendly girl. Or woman. Jeroen stands up and taps the cursor keys a little. You see? Heavy lag. Quickly he logs out. Next day events take place that make all talk about third parties out of line. Not to mention fences. -------------------------------------------------------------------- - Jeroen de Groot, ESL student Class 4a, Ms. C. Bard 
