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A Microfiction Universe within the Secret of Secrets
Based on dream #5
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Based on dream #5
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Here’s a thing. It’s from the untitled tenth book, the one I often refer to as the tenth one. It’s kina like a white album sort of deal, that title-not-title thing—never mind. Anyway, this is the penultimate chapter in that book, reworked slightly for our story:
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About Seth
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Wendy’s final lover
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My heels click against the marble floors and ring out loudly, yet the books lining every wall catch the sounds, record them, and there is no report. In this room, there is a long, wide table. Wood, or the appearance thereof. On the table, there is a folio case, open,
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There is a room—a guest room, we can call it—named the Jupiter Room. I’m not sure exactly where it is, like in which building and on what floor. I believe it’s on the first floor, but I can’t prove it. A wall of windows makes
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Dream #4
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Openings stimulate curiosity and movement toward and into. I say this as I rub my eyes and yawn. Then, I stretch my arms overhead, giving you a full view of the hair there. I scratch my face and go on, saying, Passages continue the excitation—or not—until exhaustion, confusion,
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Let me open with an apology. Sorry for sending two emails in the same day—particularly for that one reader, whoever you are, that said one a week was plenty. I figure maybe getting two in one day might feel more like one if I send them close together. I
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A pseduodemonic paranoid fiction in rather disastrous array
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At a convenience store, down the hill and across the street from the Temple to Mars … Me and you are in the store. It has a smell to it. It is, to me, a nice smell. To you, it might be a bit of dirt. Like dirt and mud on
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In the alleyway, on the brick wall, I show you the message spray-painted there: Once you can read it, I say, you’ll know you are ready to understand it. There is good art, I say, but there is also bad art. There is health, yet there is also illness.