Rarely did I keep a secret from my brother; he could tell by the guilty look on my face that I harbored something that I wouldn’t share. 374 more words
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I was first alerted to the (onetime) existence of Melanchthon in a rather obscure passage in the work of Nathaniel Hawthorne in which he makes a veiled reference to a certain fellow called ‘Blackened Earth’ whom he describes only as a ‘mysterious traveller’. 257 more words
They finally construct that perfect figure whose center is everywhere and circumference nowhere. Upon completion they decide that it is not bringing in a large enough profit and so convert it into a factory specializing in the fabrication of darkness. 25 more words
I spoke to the purple bus parked in the yellow light, both of us stranded in a foreclosed mini-mall in the middle of nowhere. “I’d strike over the hill and right down to the rail spur where I know a place in a narrow alley where I can sit and drink and wallgaze a vast black cliff that has magic vibrating properties that send back messages of swarming holy light in the night.” I dreamed that I was typing this into The Alarm Clock of Love and that the Timeline reverted to the Wall and as the cylinders firing me forward in time misfired and chronology unraveled into tangles of multicolored yarn the strands propelled themselves as spraypaint onto the wall behind the purple bus and spelled out each and every letter of this post, beginning with I.