Prose

 
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The Pleasures of an Inconsequential Existence

There are certain truths we would all accept if only we allowed ourselves the time to consider them. The universe is likely infinite and unknowable. The gods are either cruel, indifferent or imagined. Our lives are fleeting and ultimately inconsequential, and when the sun swells into a giant ageing orb and envelops the earth, all of our worries, our insecurities, our accolades, our statues and any remaining mundane evidence of our existence will be obliterated. One can hardly be blamed for not wanting to mull over such things.

However, if you do decide to take a moment to ponder the pointlessness of your life, you may find yourself surprisingly cheered...

 
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De Clerambault's Wife

The first face that A. thought of, coming to, was his wife’s.

In the thick, dim twilight that seemed to seep through the tank, her face swam out towards him like a white flower in bloom. He tried to reach out to her, to cup her milky pale cheekbones in the palms of his hands, but he couldn't move. Everywhere hurt. A crisp, aspartic pain that ricocheted around his bones and sobered him up. Fuck he missed her. Why was he here?

The individual will need to have been somewhat injured earlier, yes. But that is immaterial given what will follow.

There was a deep stillness all around him, deep and heavy and opaque to the extent that he felt somehow...