A Dream of Impossible People 001 (FICTION)
He didn’t often shave. When he did, the mirror twisted and cracked, his face split between the shards, each of those infinite reflections thinking of infinite ways to die and why he was frightened by, and drawn to, each one of those endings. Instead, he drank coffee with no caffeine, because caffeine was just a rush of heartbeats and regrets, inky black, like so many nights caught in the grip of sleep paralysis, but in liquid form. From there, it was the choice: clean or unclean. Most days he was unclean. This suited him. Let the cover be the book. Let the book dictate the cover. And aren’t we all merely books made flesh? On this day it was no shave, coffee that did not…
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