She was getting old quickly and she knew it. She sat up all night in her rickety swivel chair in her hovel of an office, pondering possibilities. Eureka!! she thought after sipping the last of the SODA before her at 6:10 while the sun was trying to crack on her dawned face. I’ll form a group. Better: I’ll form a whole *sim* that the group will control. You can’t manifest anything there unless you join. And it will all be set in the future, she continued to brainstorm with herself. People — certain people especially (she was thinking about) — would have a hard time finding it that way, a very hard time. “They’d have to take a special train, plane or automobile. One made of ectoplasm and not real matter, yess,” she hissed aloud, bringing back her snake aspect. She was on top of the mountain, a fulfilled pyramid, tip included. Pink Peak. Grant Hill had nothing on her. Because he was she.
“6′ 5″,” she revised later in the Amazon. Close enough.
Sunklands 