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Literature Text
She swore gently. The author was always making her swear gently; it was appalling. How the fuck does one swear gently? Do you whisper it like a coy lover? Or mumble it like you might mumble lullabies to a babe near sleep? It’s bloody impossible, you cannot swear gently! She glared fiercely at the author; damn bitch just didn’t have enough adverbs and the ones she had: she didn’t know how to use. The author chided her, reminding her that digressions really were unattractive in prose. To which she sharply pointed out that if she had digressed it was only because the author had written her in digressing. In frustration the author tried to pencil in the next scene, ungrateful little shits those characters. But she, the nasty little blighter, was only too quick to remind that if the characters were ill tempered it was only because the author had made them thus. Viciously throwing the pencil onto the desktop, the author rose and strode out of the room, seeking air. As the pencil clattered to the floor, the author swore – not gently.
Literature
We Take Visitors Again
After Map The roads have always been in us, in the way the repetition of spoons against china hums us into ourselves, in the way the company flies by like shadows of the foliage we missed; in the foot sinking into the heavy ground of a sun-saturated room -- how where we've been is only defined by how the corners and routes angle their way back into our space when we've been still for too long. The New Map We go inside ourselves to remember how a place was we once visited passing each other by too busy to gather but the highlights of the other, maintaining our inner paths; the corners of the room edging from us into its parameters -- how an elbow could jostle each other's oceans like waves. How we encroach until we're too tired -- the laid path of our belongings (your hats, my candles) shifting until they crystalize in a shared nostalgia of which we'll need one day. A Finished Map The roads are in us now, in the way routes have sealed themselves to
Literature
whispers of the sun
during the cold of the deep night hushed and frozen breaths are taken-- the final sighs of another day, when the soul is ready to respire where in dreams i long to drift and stay a realm of which i never tire, filled with those we lost along the way --stirred awake for just a moment; turned upon a shoulder; there are aches, a pain you gave me, a precious gift, a soft reminder, that there are those that we may yet save but sometimes i second guess my position and toss and turn the other way-- a swell of warmth spells your decision words that you could never say that despite the seeming endless darkness, and a never ending land of snow: "there is light along the path ahead, there is warmth wherever you go"
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Is not the purpose of a good novel to blur the boundaries between what is fiction and what is fact?
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Year and a half later, still wonderful.