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comment on comments

My first post in a long while was greeted exuberantly by a flood of fifteen, simultaneously posted, vaguely worded Comments, sprayed all throughout various entries, in a sad attempt at using me for SEO tricksiness. So it looks like some newfangled abuse is allowing spammers to see when I update and to barrage me with crap, like some kind of high-powered sniper-spam-rifle waiting for me to pop up my head.

The short version: I have turned on Comment Moderation, so your comments will not go up until I have approved them. This may cause a brief delay, but it seems better than the password option that other Blogger journals seem fond of requiring lately—those damned things never work for me.

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dan simmons’ fiction

“I came back for my own purposes,” said the Time Traveler, looking around my booklined study. “I chose you to talk to because it was . . . convenient. And I don’t want you to do a goddamned thing. There’s nothing you can do. But relax . . . we’re not going to be talking about personal things. Such as, say, the year, day, and hour of your death. I don’t even know that sort of trivial information, although I could look it up quickly enough. You can release that white-knuckled grip you have on the edge of your desk.” I tried to relax. “What do you want to talk about?” I said. “The Century War,” said the Time Traveler. I blinked and tried to remember some history. “You mean the Hundred Year War? Fifteenth Century? Fourteenth? Sometime around there. Between . . . France and England? Henry V? Kenneth Branagh? Or was it . . .” “I mean the Century War with Islam,” interrupted the Time Traveler. “Your future. Everyone’s.” He was no longer smiling. Without asking, or offering to pour me any, he