1 Oct 2011

[Book. The previous is at alquemie.com.]

This must indeed be a strange place. Magic has passed through here, I can smell its smoky traces. How have I been folded into these alternate patterns? Vague memories pass through my mind’s eye, as if I have haunted these environs sometime in the recesses of my past, as if these are places where wanderers such as I go when… there is no where else to go… or is there? The white door of the room is not locked, and I open it. White halls, white lights overhead. The tiles below I suppose have speckles of pattern on them. Other doors along the hall, some of them open. And there are people standing in some of the doorways. They are dressed in blue and white inconspicuous patterns, all of them. And looking down at myself, so am I. I am one of them.

posted by John H. Doe @ 12:01 am

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