Wave of Mutilation

This is my happy ending for you, and it’s my confession as well. There is no story. There is no world but just a few words. You are free to go.

Even as he admits his fictional status, Grover becomes more and more afraid, more and more convinced of his own existence, and more committed to the initial premise in the title.

You realize that this story is very nearly finished now and pause at the end of this sentence in order to consider other, more satisfying, conclusions. The space you can see through, this hole in the world, doesn’t exist. It’s just a trick that I’m pulling. It’s a trick that you agree to let me pull even as I give the trick away. Somehow the trick

Holding onto an idea of her identity, even though the idea is a fiction, is what she’s aiming at.

“The mind knows no limits when used properly,” the voice said. “Think of a pentagram, Donald. Now put another inside, a third, and a fourth. No pencil is sharp enough to draw as fine as you can think, and no paper large enough to hold your imagination. In fact, it is only in the mind that we can conceive infinity.”

I got to the front lawn by following the pattern of everyday life. I opened doors that weren’t there, turned down halls that could no longer be said to exist, and then looked out at the lawn through a window in empty space.

He was being read, the world itself was a kind of act, and knowing this gave him the power to stand outside the text.

Kitsch is thought of as naive, but nothing can be kitsch until cynicism is introduced.

I’d been part of a collective effort to organize an event that would lead us to understand how each one of us had been part of such an effort.