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"sacrimonic* filigree, 01"

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... in be flat miner [sic, fic, diddle dick, sailing on the link-link]

He's sitting at a desk in a room that's roughly nine by twelve. In feet, or meters, kilometers or astral light-years, that part doesn't really matter. Apart from the floors of shelves of specific things at dusty rest in the record of their link-link relativity, would be the over-thing itself -- a library of space and time that's left unshaped by the builder of the over-thing, "Infinity and Continuum Construction -- We Build Your Universe."

Which is long for "He's sitting at a desk and the desk is in his head."

A girl walks in, who happens to be comely. Which is a word, today, with a connotation that shares center stage with "handsome." Thank you, Internet, for giving "come" and "go" new, graphic visuals.

She laughs. "Handsome? Okay. Then keep your hands where I can see them." She's smiling at the boy, like Slim, the character Lauren Bacall played in "To Have and Have Not," standing sultry in a doorway and asking Bogart if he knew how to pucker up and blow.

The boy is nearly speechless. Nearly always. Or always nearly, would be more accurate. What he does is wait -- one beat, maybe ten, an hour, a month, who knows? -- until the words bubble up and arrange themselves, inside the word swamp in his head, to form a link that gives a moment past the present of a moment future.

He holds both hands up and finger wiggles at her by the door. "Good thing I just had my nails done, then."

"Really? And where was that?"

"The Ace Hardware store on Elm Street by the river."

"By the girl in the back room who does both nails and screws?"

"That's her. I had a feeling you would know her."

"She was in my sorority."

"What happened to the 'is' to make it 'was'"?

"Her sores finally healed, and she was discharged."

The boy does a large breath laugh, his smile nearly wrapped around his head. "Sororities as healing houses, filled with sisters of the coolest mercy who heal the emo flesh. Who the fuck-luck are you?"

"'Fuck-luck?' You've been watching Debra Morgan having fuck-fun on 'Dexter' again. Come on -- I'm your finger-fucking-licking dream girl. You know this isn't real, right?"

"Yeah. I'm just ..."

"Just trying to make it better than what's real?"

"That's it."

"Because in the unselfish, useful version, that would be your contribution to the future of the spec? With large-sense 'art' as the leading edge of real, like the outer edges of the school of fish that turn the school's preoccupation with its knot of inner self-reflection, to reflect on, and move on to, something else?"

"Am I giving you too much explanatory dialogue?"

"You're on the edge."

2013-05-27 14:58:59 (546 words)

* from "sacrilege" (blasphemous) + "mnemonic" (a verbal device used to aid recall), with "device," here and where the fuck not?, being merely how we "shit a brick and fuck me with it" think, thank you, Debra Morgan
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