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Where are you? (in the book you are reading) - please read 1st post

I am doing an expedition across the Southern Alps, ( a Northern Italian chain ) with my friend Louis-Benjamin Fleuriau de Bellevue in 1791 . I discovered a fascinating carbonate rock, in the Limestone Alps. Although, this rock has no name yet ! Today, on october 31, I am reading a letter from Nicolas Théodore de Saussure about some rock samples that I sent him.
Gosh ! This rock doesn't dissolve ( or effervesce ) in the hydrochloric acid . Interesting ! :)
 
Tucked away, fairly out of sight, presumed asleep, in an alcove in my master's room; he and the Abo of Fossonova are discussing a series of terrifying events that have unfolded in the monastery, and which he'd like my master, William of Baskerville, to investigate.
 
England 802. I was taken prisoner by Vikings who burned my village,but because I strangely speak their language and my 'red eye' they think I'm linked to Odin. I'm slowly becoming one of the Norseman,but our two longships are being held ransom by a larger force we attacked in Wessex,and we've been sent to capture a holy book from a castle in Mercia.
 
It's circa 1964 and I've been locked in a kitchen, by Andrew Oldham, with Mick and told to write a song if we wanted to be let out. In the kitchen we write As Tears Go By. Andrew lets us out of the kitchen.
 
In Prague. Well, sort of. It seems Prague is just one level of reality. There are books with strange characters, and someone just told me he'd once been mocked by a fish.
 
I'm surrounded by trees that grow horizontally , or rather, in a labyrinth of branches where coexist animals of different Eras . But it isn't a forest and neither is it a jungle . Now, I am following the footsteps of an alpine newt that is seeking its distant relatives/cousins between Lepidosauria, Archosaur, Ichthyosaur .
Actually, I have to arrange these branches .
 
I'm in Ireland,1846,where the potato famine has begun. My parents and young sisters have just died of fever and our cabin burned by dragoons,and I've been carted off to the poor-house.
 
I'm in Switzerland, just finished 3 days of cold turkey under the care of a medical quack and now that my fingers work again I just wrote a song called Angie.
 
I am traveling home in a shiny silver Volvo with Edward Cullen. Rain is creating an opaque veil on the windshield, its tempest torrent crashing from above. Clair de Lune is playing softly, barely hearkened over the warm current of air rushing from the vents along the dashboard.
 
Back in that other Japan. Someone's been killed, someone's missing, someone killed herself, but at least there's an extra moon. Probably.
 
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