There was, I thought, a type of man who’d frequent a bathhouse. This turned out to be ignorance.
In the middle of the night, the train makes one of many stops in a small town whose name appears written in a dream alphabet.
I am now one of a small number of people to have actually seen The Four in the flesh. Well, not quite the flesh.
“This is meant to be the loneliest part of the ride.”
They had only been married a year and she knew with absolute certainty that his mother would blame her for this.
And the Word became flesh: coarse hair, crooked smile, the taste of salt on his clavicle. I am the disciple whom he loved.
I asked about the children we were to study: who were they, why were they to undergo the test, what was the purpose of our program? Though I also knew it wasn’t any of my business.
I can’t imagine where I’d be if they knew my version of what happened.
At first, it was just this hazy glow on the horizon, but then it got brighter and took on more of a definite shape. It was almost as if—it’s weird to say it, even now—it was looking for us.
It couldn’t happen without effort. Nothing happened without effort, except catastrophe.
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