Diary of a psychic Journalist

Friday 20th December 2019

I woke up this morning, dreaming that my brother had killed himself.

That’s the thing, I don’t have a brother.

We didn’t have memeplexes when I was young, in those days we just called them personalities I suppose.

Ever since the world ended in 2012, 0.52 milliseconds ago apparently, Dissociative Identity Disorder is a way of life.

I’m aboard the USS Callister, or is it the Orville? I can’t really tell and it doesn’t really matter, not where we are going.

Engage the Hyperspatial engine. Set the controls for the heart of the sun.

Space is the ultimate paradox for a psychic- our powers are amplified because there is no interference but there is also nobody to read.

Instead we hear the steady background hum of eternity. If you listen long enough, you go mad, they say.

Diary of a psychic journalist

18th December, 2019

You haven’t heard from me recently. I’ve been in the underworld (not pictured), meeting with the souls of the dead, finding out about the word under the street.

This is a shamanic initiation, when it’s over I’ll tell you all about it.

It’s never over.

Diary of a Psychic Journalist

Friday 13th December 2019

I’m ready to eat. I’m looking for somewhere near Borough. Afterwards, I pour out my coffee grains, an ancient divination method known originally to the ancient aztecs as part of their union with quetzalcoatlus.

There is something… In my coffee.

I’m still looking for Emily and John Murray the 8th. I don’t know where they are but I received a vision and something has happened to them. They are the true heirs to this media empire of the future. There is a story here.

About 1pm the city is speaking to me. It says, Feed, come back again at 4pm.

I am a master of disguise. I use Mind Rays to create the illusion that I look differently to how I really look. Right now I am wearing a long black coat and a red hat.

Ultimately, we all do to some extent, our true form being only perceived by the most gifted.

They call me.

THE INVISIBILIST.

AKA Maxwell Feed, Psychic Journalist.

I’ve found myself lost in one of the mysterious places that seems to pop up in London only never to be found again.

Something has brought me here and I have 3.5 hours to find out where I have to be.

And where I am, for that matter. I see holy ground, I head for it to consult with Satan. He’s moping around outside. I receive a vision but it passes. Despite all of my psychic training, I still have a poor sense of direction

It’s quarter to four. I can feel the tension in the air. Something is coming.

Getting closer. I think I caught a glimpse.

I part traffic like Moses parts the Red Sea.

My Mind Rays™ turn red to green, their green to red.

I slip through the streets of London, unseen, like a fist into a glove.