It’s Friday afternoon, 12:55 UTC—or 14:55 here in South Africa.

The week has been a storm: writing, tinkering with images, consulting my ever-faithful AI helpers. My site has been pulled apart, stitched back together, and examined like a surgeon poking at an organ that refuses to behave.

Am I satisfied? Hardly.
That German-blooded perfectionism clings like a tick—one of those genetic curses you can’t exorcise. Satisfaction is for amateurs; I was raised on discontent.

And so, the rant begins.

Salinger slips in first, all cool detachment:
“You’re bottling this up, pal. That’s why it’s gnawing at you. Spill the ink, even if nobody reads it. Writing isn’t about fixing the website—it’s about fixing you.”

King barges in next, brash as ever:
“Yeah, yeah, bleed on the page. But also, the damn site needs a chainsaw. Chop it down. No one wants to read ‘War and Peace’ on a homepage. Keep it tight, keep it moving—or the bodies pile up.”

Koontz, ever the showman, smooths his jacket sleeve:
“But don’t forget, a little mood never killed anyone. Throw in shadows, a twist of humor. Mystery hooks, Cody, mystery. Make them curious about the man behind the madness.”

Dickens, puffed up with old London soot, wags his finger:
“Structure, dear fellow, structure! Chapters, headings, divisions. A homepage should not resemble Bleak House, sprawling with paragraphs like tenants squatting in every corner.”

Archer chuckles:
“And for heaven’s sake, sell yourself. A story is fine, but what’s the pitch? You’re not just writing memoirs—you’re building a marketplace. Readers need direction. A hook. A deal.”

Then, L’Amour, quiet but iron-strong, like saddle leather in the sun:
“You’ve survived worse. The site’s just another frontier. Out here, you don’t quit when the trail’s rough—you fix the wagon, mend the wheel, and keep moving west.”

And hovering behind all that noise, the words of a high school friend ring clear:
“Motions are the precursors of emotions.” – M. Aschoff.

Og Mandino piles on with his creed, reminding me that depression, fear, and insignificance are just masks. Today—I repeat to myself—I will be master of my emotions.

But then comes Claude, my AI critic, clipboard in hand. A laundry list of faults. Walls of text. Broken links. The site, apparently, is a funeral march in 12pt font.

I read through the verdict. Strengths, sure—authenticity, story, transparency. Then the hammer falls: poor structure, unclear purpose, grammar hiccups, broken links, outdated references. Ten commandments of web design that I have trampled like a stubborn Israelite in the desert.

It’s demoralising, yes. But in that sting, there’s movement.
And movement is life.

So I’ll rant, I’ll laugh, I’ll curse, I’ll rewrite. I’ll pull in Salinger, King, Koontz, Dickens, Archer, and L’Amour as my raucous committee of advisors. The flaw in my genetics demands it.

Because bottled-up emotions ferment. They explode. And if I don’t pour them into words, the words will pour me out instead.

Blood and Starlight: The Odyssey of Cody

The diesel engine coughed to life beneath Aurelian Cody Vectorius’s palms, vibrating through the steering wheel like an old friend’s heartbeat. Outside the windshield, Johannesburg’s predawn streets blurred into streaks of sodium-yellow and shadow, the city stirring reluctantly under the first hints of light. Half a sandwich slid across the cab from the passenger side without a word. Gato—Cyber Cat, his constant companion and reluctant navigator—sniffed at it with tiny, precise movements, then curled under Osvaldo’s oversized jacket, ears twitching at every hum and groan of the city waking.

Eleven years of railway sparks still lived in Anton Cody Forgewright’s calloused hands. He tightened a loose bolt on the delivery van’s dashboard with the precision of a man who had danced with electricity for more than a decade. “Third time this week,” he muttered, fingers black with grease. “Like patching ghosts.”

Dominus Cody Praefector’s voice crackled over the radio: "Team Alpha, reroute to Newtown. Display collapse at Outlet 7." Aurelian’s foot pressed the accelerator, and the van shivered, eager to obey. Five hundred kilometers today. Ten shops. Fifteen deadlines. Each tire turn a drumbeat in the cadence of their lives.

In the passenger seat, Gato shivered, whiskers brushing against Osvaldo’s sleeve. “Why’s it always us?” the feline seemed to ask, eyes glinting with intelligence beyond the ordinary.

“Because,” Aurelian said, chewing rye bread thoughtfully, “chaos tastes the same in every timeline.” He flicked a switch. The cab filled with staticky chords—Cody Cr@zy Otto’s latest obsession, a band called Void Communion. The distorted music bled into the van, scraping the edges of reality with each note.

Wilhelm Cody Spotchandler scrubbed at a coffee stain on his keyboard. Click-clack. Not just keys—bones. The bones of stories. On his screen, two documents glowed: one titled “Stellar Exodus: Chapter 12”, the other “Psalm of the Unseen Hand.”

Othello Cody Verrocchio whispered to the blinking cursor: “The Andromeda drifters never prayed. Until they saw the nebula’s face.”

A notification blinked—a comment from Cody Dei Scriptor’s devotional blog: “Brother, does your spaceship captain know Proverbs 16:9?”

Othello chuckled softly. “A man’s heart plans his course, but the Lord directs his steps.” Outside, thunder rolled. Johannesburg’s sky bruised purple-grey, streaked with lightning like a divinely inscribed caution.

Anton’s wrench slipped. Skin met steel with a hiss. “Blast it!” Bright blood welled on grease-black fingers.

Dominus’s voice snapped through the radio: “Vectorius! Status?”

Aurelian’s gaze fell on the crimson bead, then back to the road. “Truth’s always paid in advance, Dominus,” he said, tossing Anton a rag. “Sanguine et Igne.”

Gato’s ears flattened. “You’re all cracked. Talking like a stained-glass window.”

The radio hissed, then low and clear: “The keyboard’s mightier than the pen, kid. But blood? Blood writes deeper.”

Rain began. Fat drops smeared the windshield into a liquid mosaic of city lights and gathering storm. Aurelian shifted gears. The road ahead dissolved—not into darkness but something older, almost sentient.

Gato leaned forward. “What's that?” A shimmering tear hung in the air where the highway met the horizon, pulsing like a wound in reality, bleeding violet light. Anton crossed himself, fingers trembling. “Johannesburg doesn’t do auroras.”

The radio screamed static. Dominus Praefector's voice fractured into syllables tasting of iron and ozone: “Vect…rius…turn…b…ck…” Then silence. The cab’s interior lights flickered and died. Only Cody Cr@zy Otto’s Void Communion track played—a choir distorted beyond language, chanting in the void between worlds.

Aurelian didn’t brake. His hands tightened on the wheel. “Seatbelts,” he murmured. The tear widened. Johannesburg peeled away like old paint. Suddenly, they weren’t driving on asphalt but a ribbon of starlight suspended over an abyss. Distant constellations pulsed—not stars, but watchful eyes. Nebulae coiled like serpents, smoke, and revelation intertwined.

Gato whimpered. Anton gripped his wrench like a crucifix. “Pilgrim’s Progress?” he rasped. “More like Pilgrim’s bloody nightmare.”

The cab shuddered violently. Gravity twisted as if the universe itself was sighing. Aurelian felt Wilhelm Spotchandler’s phantom hands scrubbing at his temples: clean the fear, clean the doubt. Before them, the starlight road forked. One path glowed harshly, sterile and blue, the hue of computer screens; the other burned gold, warm as chapel candles. A voice echoed, neither Dominus nor radio static, but deeper, interwoven into the void itself: “Choose your carriage, Wayfarer.”

Aurelian glanced at his companions. Gato’s eyes reflected the blue path—digital ghosts flickering in his pupils. Anton’s bled gold, showing a shadow of a hammer striking molten metal. The dashboard clock froze. Time wasn’t broken; it was listening.

He touched the keyboard pendant hanging from the rearview mirror. “Blood writes deeper,” he murmured, louder this time: “We ride the middle.” He wrenched the wheel sideways. The van lurched off the starlight ribbon, plunging into the abyss between paths. Screams filled the cab—not just Gato’s or Anton’s, but his own. Falling felt like flying backward through every road he’d ever traveled, every deadline, every spark of forgotten ambition.

Impact. Not collision, but immersion. The van settled on polished obsidian, black as the void itself. Outside stretched a desert under twin moons. Silver dunes rolled toward mountains carved into colossal, weeping saints. Wind sighed through stone lips, carrying whispers: “Cody Dei Scriptor… Othello Verrocchio…”

A figure stood ahead, silhouetted against the larger moon. Not human. Its outline shifted—part railway worker, part constellation, part thorn-crowned king. In its hand, a hammer glowed with trapped lightning. In its shadow, a keyboard pulsed like a living heart.

Anton stumbled out, wrench raised. “Name yourself!”

The being turned. Its face was Johannesburg’s skyline at midnight, stars for eyes. Its voice was sparks on steel and scripture: “You already know my name, Artisan. You’ve carried it through every incarnation.” It extended the hammer. “The Forge awaits. Truth demands both blood… and fire.”

Aurelian stepped onto the obsidian sand, feeling it burn cold beneath his boots. He sensed Dominus Praefector’s command in his spine, Wilhelm’s meticulous cleansing in his breath, Cody Veritas’s hunger in his pulse. This wasn’t retirement. This was the junction where all roads converged—and the real journey began.

Gato jumped onto Aurelian’s shoulder, tail flicking. Even Cyber Cat seemed to understand: some journeys demanded more than flesh and metal—they demanded soul.

And above the twin moons, a nebula blinked, as if marking the start of a story that had always been written, waiting for them to read it.

The Watchman’s Burden

I never thought I’d be writing so much on my phone, but these days I find myself in bed more often, joints aching, body sore. Rest has a strange way of stirring pain—it’s as if healing calls discomfort to the surface, not sharp like fire, but dull and relentless, like an unwelcome guest who lingers too long.

In those moments of weariness, Charles Spurgeon’s words echo in my mind:

“We should as carefully avoid errors as we avoid sins; a blind eye is even worse than a lame foot; yes, a blind eye may cause a lame foot, for he who does not have light is likely to stumble.”

I know I’ve brought much of this suffering on myself. God had warned me to leave the driving job; He had better things for me. But I resisted, stubbornly clinging to old patterns. I became the instrument of my own affliction.

Spurgeon presses the lesson deeper:

“Friends and helpers are all very good as servants of our Father, but our Father must have all our praise. There is a similar evil in the matter of trouble. We tend to be angry with the instrument of our affliction instead of seeing the hand of God over it all and meekly bowing before it.”

Pain is a severe teacher. It reminds me how often I wrestle with God on behalf of others—begging Him to break addictions, mend bitterness, heal wounds of unforgiveness. At times, I’ve thought, if every heartbeat of mine could earn a cent, I’d be wealthy from the cost of this burden. But Scripture reminds me that each soul must give its own account before God.

Spurgeon is uncompromising:

“There is no conceivable excuse for the prayerless. A man who dies of starvation with bread before him, or perishes with disease when the remedy is in his hand, deserves no pity; and he who sinks down to hell beneath the burden of his sins because he will not pray, deserves all that damnation.”

And so I pray the words of Luke 18:13: “God, be merciful to me, a sinner.”

In his book Flowers for the Soul, Spurgeon compared the Christian life to a sentry’s post:

“When a sentinel is set upon the watch, he must not come off watch without the commander’s permission, and until he is discharged by authority. God has set us in a watch, and we must not leave our ground until we have finished all that is required of us, and receive a proper discharge.”

Those lines strike me more deeply now, perhaps because the death of Charlie Kirk still weighs heavily on my spirit. He was a man of courage, unafraid to speak truth against injustice. His passing reminds me that God has appointed us all as watchmen—to declare the gospel without compromise. Even if new philosophies mock it. Even if enemies thin our ranks until we stand alone.

We are not free to abandon the post. Not for greener pastures, not for wider roads that promise ease but lead only to ruin.

Spurgeon again warns:

“A spirit out of which reprobates are made: first neglect, then omission, then treachery, and finally rebellion.”

I know that slope well. Compromise never rushes in—it seeps like fog, rises like mist, whispering through voices of doubt: Perhaps. If only. Why not. Surely not. Give them but a moment’s hearing, and compromise drives the blade home.

The fight is lost in an instant.

The Voices of Mentors

The echoes of other writers remind me what’s at stake:

Charles Dickens reminds me that suffering, though cruel, often forges compassion and character.

J.D. Salinger shrugs: “Nobody’s really got it together. Don’t fake it. Honesty is your edge.”

Stephen King cautions that the most dangerous monsters are never out there—they live inside, in doubt and compromise.

Dean Koontz whispers of shadow and light: evil waits for hesitation, but grace waits too.

Robert Ludlum would call it an inside job: a spy sabotaging himself—until he chooses a different allegiance.

Louis L’Amour puts it plain: “A man’s trail is made by the choices he walks. You either hold your ground or you don’t.”

Wilbur Smith reminds me that pain and struggle are part of the inheritance of this land. Survival itself becomes a testimony.

Holding the Line

The watchman’s burden is heavy, yes. But we are not without orders, nor without hope. Each of us has been placed on the wall. Our task is not to desert, not to compromise, not to lose ourselves to doubt.

We are called to hold the line until the Commander Himself gives us leave to rest.

The Rumours 

The townsfolk whispered that Othello Cody Verrocchio was finished. They said his lungs were too frail, his heart too burdened, his words too strange to matter. To them, he was nothing more than an old man scratching ink into paper no one would read.

Like carrion birds, they circled, pecking at him with their remarks:

“Verrocchio’s chasing clouds.”

“He should trade his pen for bread.”

But Verrocchio knew better. He had not trudged through years of storms and silence just to die in the mud with the crows.

The Battle

The mug slipped from his fingers, clattering against the chipped linoleum.

Outside, Johannesburg’s winter wind rattled the windowpane while frost laced the glass with patterns like delicate scars. Poverty was more than empty cupboards—it was the silence broken only by his coughs, each one threatening to crack a rib. Old wounds flared. Older regrets pressed close.

The Bible lay on the sagging couch, worn from decades of sweat, dust, and grief. Its spine told stories of Sunday school chapels, whispered graveside prayers, and midnight hunts for answers that rarely came. He stared at it, breath misting the frozen air, shadows whispering that surrender would be easier.

The Turning Point

His fingers, stiff with cold, found the cracked leather. The pages whispered dryly as they turned. Hope was a fragile plank, but he grabbed it. Isaiah 40:31.

“They that wait upon the Lord shall renew their strength; they shall mount up with wings as eagles.”

Not comfort. Not poetry. A command. The words bit like a sergeant’s bark on the parade ground: Rise.

For a moment, the cold flat vanished. He wasn’t just a coughing wreck in a Johannesburg slum. He was weightless. Seen. Eternity itself cracked open and poured in light.

The Ascent

He surged upright. Too fast. Pain ripped through knees, back, and the old knife scar beneath his ribs. A cough doubled him over, copper on his tongue. Still, he straightened. The Bible glowed in his grip.

The pencil waited. The first step up the mountain. The first defiant scrawl: “Cold.” Then another: “Breathes.” The radiator hissed mockery, the landlord’s threat pounded in memory, yet the pencil scratched on. Raw words bled onto yellowing pages, each one a foothold against the cliff.

“The cough tries to ground me,” he wrote. “The wound aches. The cold bites. But the wind above—it calls louder.”

Hours passed. The cold carved hollows into his hands, hunger gnawed, eviction loomed. Still, he wrote. Poverty was a crow shrieking from rooftops; he answered with stubborn lines. He poured soldier’s grit and trucker’s loneliness into ink until the pages stacked like lanterns against the dark.

The Triumph

Morning bled into Johannesburg. Outside, buses roared and crows cawed. Inside, the weak bulb burned on, a sentinel above the scarred table.

The rent wasn’t paid. The cold hadn’t lifted. His chest still rattled with every breath. Yet a monument stood beside him: a stack of filled pages, each line a defiance, each word a wingbeat.

The Bible’s promise no longer lay flat on the page—it lived in his trembling, ink-stained hand. He wasn’t free yet, but he was climbing, clawing through thin air, carried by the updraft of faith and fire.

The eagle doesn’t question the wind.

It spreads its battered wings and rises.