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the asem

2/24/2015

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Jennifer Cantwell - Letter home (2011)
When the studio called to offer me an internship, I literally jumped out of my shoes. I liked to wear them two sizes too big and hadn’t tied them yet, so it was easier than it sounds. My bare feet landed flat on the floor smacking echoes that nearly reached the volume of my surprised cheering.

I knew it meant long, thankless hours and coming home smelling like water at the bottom of a three week old forgotten bong. The experience meant a lot to any future prospects of making my career as a producer. Joe asked me to start on the weekend. I don’t recall breathing outside air for the next seventy two hours. After that, my universe became nothing but a blur of distortion, off pitch vocals and the occasional string section complaining about unbalanced headphone mixes.

Most of my friends disappeared over the next three years. The phone slowly stopped ringing with invites to see the new Tarrantino flick, birthday parties or when my buddy had floor tickets to The Pixies. So buried in routing cables, finding the perfect mic placement and making sure everything sounded in phase, I didn’t notice my life drifting out of phase.

It might have been gullibility and need for acceptance more than actual skill, but when the head engineer asked me to run a session with a major new client I just knew I was on my way. All of my sacrificed friendships and missed chances with willing women now seemed all worth while. It made no difference to me that Joe wanted to watch the series finale of Two and a Half Men more than deal with this particular high maintenance teenage diva and her entourage of spoiled paparazzi teasing brats.

Rather than doing any actual recording, Celiste spent the first day glued to her cell phone (lovingly named “Celly”). Her “Momager” berated my assistant Reg and me for a couple hours about the sub par furniture and the necessity to keep the vocal booth temperature at exactly 73.6 degrees. She refused to let her “Star Baby” sing until we’d equipped the room with the correct brand of humidifier.

I put in a call to the home supply store, placed a Crucial Mist Ultrasonic Aroma Ceramosphere Humidifier BTCH3006.4 on hold. Fortunately they had a couple in stock. Reg squealed his tires out of the parking lot to go pick it up.

“Was that really necessary?” She shouted at the the truck’s rear bumper. “Order some sushi. None of that local wannabe crap either. We only eat spicy tuna rolls from Masaguchi in Venice.”

“I’ll see if we have a menu at the front desk.” Before I turned the corner, she pressed the speed dial on her phone and held up a sharp nailed finger to stop me. “Oui Monsieur. We are here for the next week. Come. Please Minister. You are indeed welcome.”

My spine ached with imaginary nails digging between each lumbar space. Her finger twirled in absent minded, ever widening ovals outlined by the bright yellow color of whatever fancy polish she’d paid for at her latest manicure. She obviously dialed the wrong number for sushi.

“The Asem will be here within the hour.” She spoke cleanly to Celeste. Immediately, all four of the girls on the couch stood as one. They turned at stiff, martial angles and marched in unison out of the building. I heard to car doors close, but no engine started.

“Is he coming to listen to me?” Celeste wrung her hands nervously. “Should I change? I need to warm up. Are the tracks loaded in the computer yet? I can’t breathe. Mommy?” She sprinted across the room burying her face into her mother’s chest.

“Calm down Baby Star.” She patted the back of the hyperventilating girl’s head. “Minister will provide a blessing on you. No need to be nervous.”

Recording sessions are notorious for their constant flow of busy work. The engineer and his assistants are constantly barraged with routing cables between devices or making sure the digital effects are running smoothly with the recording software. I had numerous ways to keep myself occupied and out of their way while Celeste sat on the couch with flapping hands attempting to fan more air to her face.

Forty five minutes later my nose hurt. A sneeze crept beside the edge of triggering an explosion. It peered down there unwilling to push any further into the canyon of release. I blew my nose loudly which brought more attention from Celeste and her mother than I wanted.

“Excuse me?” Momager stabbed fists into her sides crooking her head at an angry angle. “Can you please do that somewhere else? We are having a stressful moment in here if you would care to notice.”

I tossed the tissue into the small metal trash can in the hallway. The coffee maker sat empty and waiting for me in the kitchen. Loading the filter, I heard the mellow hum of a fine tuned engine cruise into the lot. The Audi stopped by the front door and a well dressed bodyguard stepped around the front to the rear passenger side door. The seams of his gray sport coat stretched to their limit in what must have been an intentional show of size.

His shaved head bowed reverently as the older gentleman pulled himself from the car. Average height and thin, he appeared shrunken next to the enormous guard. He walked with a slight limp on his left side, but did not use a cane. He moved with casual easiness that might easily have come off as happiness. I couldn’t tell if he smiled since his face turned away from my view when he walked beyond the building’s shadows.

Steaming mug of cheap coffee in hand, what I saw stopped me from going any further into the studio. Celeste and her mother both lay face up on the floor with their arms and legs spread wide. Fingers stretched open turning the small vestigial webs at their base to white. Toes curled inward on their bare feet, ankles raised two inches above the carpet.

“Nothing will raise you higher than song my lovelies.” The Asem reached down tracing the outline of each toe with his middle fingers. Once finished, he licked his fingernails while moaning some unintelligible phrase under his breath. “Breathe deeply of my love for you.” He puffed a burst of breath at each of them while they gulped the air like drowning goldfish tossed from their bowl.

“She should probably stop that.” I said. The Asem turned to me raising an eyebrow high on his forehead. “Swallowing air like that isn’t very good for singing.”

“Ah.” The Asem chuckled. “You must be the engineer?”

“Yes sir.” I raised my mug in a salute of sorts.

“I do not mean to intrude on your work place.” His voice deep and resonant. “Despite what you may have heard, our religion is not as strange as it seems.”

“I haven’t heard anything.”

“Please my lovelies, stand.” Celeste wore a wide eyed smile that looked to me equally full of happiness and fear. The Asem looked in a slow circle around the room. “So much technology to make something so... human.”

“I know right?” I sat in my chair and leaned back. “I have to make a living somehow I guess.”

The Asem chuckled. He pointed from his bodyguard to me. “I like this one.” The guard reached slowly into his coat. For a brief moment my heart choked with panic at the thought of a gun or knife. He handed me a long white envelope with Celeste printed on it in neat, clean black handwriting.

“You will find all of the song files for Celeste on this drive.” The Asem sat on the glass table in front of the couch placing his hands on his knees. “Remember this, there are six songs and six songs only. Each song contains precisely twelve words. Each of the words will be repeated sixteen times. Not necessarily in the same order, but they may not appear on this record more that sixteen times. What that order is I leave to your discretion.”

“Excuse me?” I reached for the numbers bouncing through the insides of my brain. Math was never my strong suit. “What do you mean my discretion… Aren’t the songs written already?”

“I leave the artisans to their craft.” The Asem stood nodding his head swiftly at Celeste. “Far be it for me to tell you how to do your job my son.”

“I’m not sure I understand.” I swiveled my chair to face him as he walked from the room followed closely by the mountain in a gray suit.

“Everything you need is on the flash drive.” His voice retreated down the hall. “Let me know when I can come back for a listen.”

Celeste held her hands palm up with her head turned to the ceiling. Her eyes closed and mouth wide open licking her tongue in sharp swaths at the air above. Her mother making the same coordinated oral movements sent a quiver in the pits of my skull and stomach.

“Here it is.” Reg pushed the dolly carrying the Crucial Mist Ultrasonic Aroma Ceramosphere Humidifier BTCH3006.4. “Open the vocal booth for me will ya?”

I stared at the envelope in my hand. Unable to hear Reg’s voice as more than a mumble from deep under water where I drowned.

“Dude. Hello?” Reg kicked my shin snapping me back to the present. “A little help here?”

“Sorry Reg.” I opened the door for him, holding it as he rolled the humidifier in. I followed closing the door behind us.

“What’s up with the freak twins out there?” He set the machine on the floor pointing over his shoulder with an extended thumb.

“Some weird Asem thing.” I blinked over and over fighting for focus.

“Oh.” Reg plugged in the humidifier and switched it on. It burst to life with a low hum. “Think this thing will quiet down by the time we hit record? Otherwise it’s gonna be a pain in the ass when we mix.”

“It should.” I leaned over the spherical machine examining the lights and vents. “That’s why I ordered this model. It’s supposed to run silent once it warms up.”

“Who was in that nice ride I passed on my way in?”

“The Asem.” The envelope felt warm in my hand.

“No shit?” Reg leaned on the red handled dolly. “The Asem? I’ve heard about The Asems. Some serious witchcraft type crap.”

“They can believe whatever they want.” I stuffed the envelope in my back pocket. The rectangle of the flash drive pressed hot through my jeans against my flesh.

“Creeps me out man. I watched this movie on…”

“Reg, all we need to do is record a few songs with this girl.” The humidifier let out a quiet buzz and fell silent. “They’ll be out of here in a few days.”

“Figures Joe splits out on this one.”

“I’ll take it man.” Momager stared at me through the glass. I opened the door. I didn’t notice until that moment, but the pressure in my sinuses relaxed. My eyes were once again able to focus and the unfamiliar scent of strange meat burning was gone.

“Let me load these files into the system, get them lined up and we should be ready to roll soon.” I opened the envelope and removed the flash drive. Momager’s eyes brightened at the sight of the logo printed on it’s side. In mirrored silver script, MINISTRY MUSIC flickered in the flashing lights of the console.

My fingertips sensed a subtle vibration of the small plastic device. I opened the black cap revealing a matte white USB port. The computer recognized it as “MINISTRY MUSIC: Celeste”. I double clicked the icon and the new window opened on the screen.

A white folder named “Celeste Tracks” sat in the upper left corner. Inside were six audio files. Listed alphabetically they were called:

  1. Introduces
  2. Holy Holly
  3. Thus Sprake Zara and Thustra
  4. Needles Haystacks Findings
  5. Ponderings
  6. Conclusioning

I created six song templates, named them each and started the process of importing the audio files. Reg set up the microphone and baffling in the vocal booth. Momager stood behind him, letting him know in no uncertain terms that he did everything incorrectly for her little girl.

Celeste sat on the couch with bright pink headphones on singing along with music I could not hear. Judging by her screeching caterwaul, I was lucky for that. Double checking that I’d used all of the files on the drive, I notice a document also included in the folder that I didn’t remember seeing before. Other than its .doc extension, it sat unnamed on the screen.

When I opened the file, all of the lights in the studio flickered. We had backup surge protectors on everything, so my heart jumped. Reg looked at me through the window and we both exchanged shrugged shoulders.

The file was formatted as if it were a letter. It had the address area in the top right. The greeting line on the top left sat just above the paragraph shape. At the bottom the signature was centered below what could be considered a “Thank You” or “Sincerely Yours”.

As recognizable as all of this was, I could read none of it. Rather than words and letters, everything on the page was written out in images of audio files. The peaks and valleys of black on the gray page brought to mind seismic distortion more than music.

I stared at the document. My mind fought to make sense of what it meant. After a while the patterns pulsed in place, rippling into three dimensions. Sounds grew from the pixels on the screen forming vowels and consonants. A small throb at the paragraph’s top howled in high falsetto…

“Are we ready yet?” Momager barked from the couch behind me. “We’ve been here all afternoon. I’ve lost all patience. We are leaving.”

In a huff, she grabbed Celeste by the hand dragging her from the studio. My eyes remained fixed on the screen. Reg chuckled at the car driving off under the sound of girls chattering on their cell phones.

When I blinked, the studio surrounded me empty, and silent. The computer’s clock read 3:12 AM. I took in a shuddering breath. An oppressive thickness filled every inch of the studio around me. The silence drove into my ears and I felt every drop of blood flowing from hairline to toenail.

The folder now contained twelve image files. Right clicking on the first, I selected preview. A small picture of a WAV file opened. Looking closely, it was the same pattern as the address line of the letter. I quickly opened images at random finding more of the letter’s “text” selected and cut into individual files.

With no memory of how or when I did this, I felt a powerful urge to insert each one into the song files for Celeste’s record. Normally our audio software is incompatible with image files. Something encoded in these particular files bypassed that issue allowing each picture to load into the new audio tracks I created.

The song files pulsed brighter and dimmer along with the heartbeat pounding my ears in the quiet, soundproofed room. My palms sweaty and shaking dripped over the faders. The sneeze built again in my nose, still refusing to launch a relief to the pressure.

The Asem stood in the vocal booth smiling into the microphone. His pale skin, near transparent. Long hair reached near hairless, naked knees. His eyes black, empty of vein, pupil or life at all, turned to me. A tongue crawled from between his cracked lips and embraced the microphone. Thin tendrils spread from the larger root of the thing sinking in between the holes in the metal grate surrounding the diaphragm.

My shoulders hunched. My mouth dry and aching. Eyes darting in all directions at once I no longer had control over my senses. I wanted to sneeze. I needed to sneeze. “Please let me sneeze.” I heard a voice that might have been mine beg.

I pressed play.

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the Key speaks

2/17/2015

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for this #TerrorTuesday ,in honor of the end of my $.99 sale of "the Key to everything" on amazon, here is my voice reading "Abram: A Man of His Words" for your listening displeasure...
Abram
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ice, the wife (or: fourteen knuckles)

2/10/2015

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The district supervisor called to cancel school for the fourth day in a row. Of course the sound of unglued children’s rapture bounded across the neighborhood. Even winterized windows and insulated walls couldn’t hold in the excitement.

In the morning while The Kids ran down the street to go sledding, I dug through every drawer and shelf two and three times over looking for that damn left glove.

“Every rat finking winter.” I mumbled at the socks and underwear.

“That’s because The Husband never listens to me.” The Wife said with not a small amount of gleeful I told you so hidden in the undertones.

“Right.” I slammed the drawer shut. “Kick me when I’m down why don’t you?”

“I tell The Husband every time we pack up the winter clothes.” The Wife took two steps into the room and sat on the edge of our bed. “Shove your gloves into your jacket pockets. That way The Husband will know where to find them when it gets cold again.”

“I thought I did.” I shut the last of the dresser drawers throwing my hands up in defeat. “I’ll make a trip to Jimmy Jobs tomorrow and pick up another pair.”

“Fine.” The Wife chuckled. Her head turned to the window before I heard the noise. Everything in the room vibrated along with the cracking rumble.

“Well that sounded un-good.” We went to the window. Outside, both of The Kids were running away from the house. Laughing and jumping through the snow, their bodies shimmered in the bright sunshine bouncing as they ran over the layer of frozen white spreading across the neighborhood.

The Kids raised up hands filled with long gleams of light. Icicles pulled from where they hung from the roof on the side of the house. One end flat from its cracking spot. The other end where the drops of water dribbled down to a thin point before freezing. They stabbed through the light ahead of them vanishing for a moment into a space The Wife and I could not see.

“Look The Father and The Mother.” The Kids shouted gleefully. “Look at our wonderful swords!”

The Wife and I nodded while we waved and smiled.

“Beautiful.” The Wife mouthed through the glass.

“Very nice.” I clapped my hands together and squeezed.

“Shall we play at war with them The Mother?” The Kids pointed the icicles to the sky. “Shall we show you what we can do with them?”

“Oh yes, please.” The Wife bounced up and down on her stockinged toes.

I opened the window poking my head into the chilly day. “Why don’t you go and see if the neighbors are home? They might want to play at the war with you.”

“Yes The Father.” The Boy Kid said bowing his head obediently.

“Oh The Father. What an absolutely wonderful idea.” The Girl Kid smiled with her sing song voice. She followed The Boy Kid across the yard leaving soft prints in the snow. Hiding the icicles behind their backs, The Kids knocked on our neighbor’s door.

The Kids stood so calm and so still. Their shadows short on the mid day sunlight snow. The Boy grabbed the doorknob. Pushing through, The Kids entered the house vanishing into the darkness of the neighbor's front hallway.

I looked on impatiently with The Wife. My skin ached against the icy wind coming through our open bedroom window. The Wife took my hand and squeezed. I lifted her fingers to my mouth kissing each of the fourteen knuckles gently.

“Do you hear anything?” The Wife asked caressing her mouth through the thinning hair on the back of my head.

“They’ll be home soon.” I whispered. “Be still and allow The Kids their fun.”

“We’ll have to move again.” She sighed. “Too bad. I like it here.”

“That’s the wonderful thing The Kids discovered.”

“What is that The Husband?” She asked. “What have The Kids found?

“Ice, The Wife.” My chest puffed with pride.

The Kids emerged from the darkened door glittering smiles across their faces. The Girl dropped her icicle on the front steps where it shattered into a handful of pinkish wet slabs.

The Boy followed shortly after holding half of his frozen sword. The point broken off leaving a flat circle of dripping red on the end. Throwing it high into the air, The Boy screamed. His voice cracked breaking the shout from a high pitched boy cry to a slightly deeper grunt.

“Ice.” I squeezed The Wife’s hand and closed the window.

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i don't mean to brag

2/4/2015

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Every night I check for monsters under the bed. I never find anything other than my skateboard or a Matchbox car that might be missing a wheel or an old sock with holes for my toes. When I open the closet door to look for ghosts, I push all my sweaters and pants out of the way and nobody’s ever there. It sucks.

“Dad, why do all my friends have haunted houses and we don’t?”

“You seem upset kiddo.” Dad turns down the TV. “Isn’t it a good thing that we don’t have monsters?”

“No.” I shake my head arms crossed. “They make fun of me at school. It’s not fair.”

“Well bud,” He takes off his glasses and sets them on the coffee table next to the TV Guide with Mork & Mindy on the cover. “I don’t know about fair or unfair, but being able to sleep through the night is a plus on my list. Let everybody else on the block take the Oogley Boogley Man and his see through friends. They can have ‘em.”

“It’s so boring here.” I stomp my foot.

“Deal with it pal.” He switches the TV back on pressing the remote buttons, clicking back and forth through the channels. “I enjoy boring. Boring is what I want. Boring is good.”

After breakfast, I skip school. I’m sick and tired of listening to all the stories. “My sister got possessed last night. We had a exorcist come over and everything…” “The water turned to fire in our pool. The flames reached up and took my dog. That’s why most of my hair is gone. I got burned…” “You think that’s cool? The doctor said I can’t sit down for two weeks. Did you guys see those flashing lights over my house? Yup. I got probed…”

What am I going to say? "After I finished my homework Dad let me watch Happy Days and then stay up an extra half hour for Laverne and Shirley?" Lame. My life sucks.

I walk through Licorice Pizza and flip through some records. I already have the newest Van Halen. Iron Maiden covers are always the coolest. Next to the opera section, past the punk and classical, I see the spoken word stuff. Mostly comedy albums. I like Richard Pryor and Dad has a bunch of George Carlin that we listen to sometimes. Funny stuff. All the bad words crack me up.

I find it hidden in the back row behind the religious records. The cover doesn’t have any color. Not black or white or gray. It’s empty. No label on the vinyl either. It’s weird looking at a record with no grooves too. Almost like a mirror. My face looks all warbly in it.

I’m not a thief. I don’t remember ever stealing anything in my life before this. I can’t help it. My fingernail rips the plastic sleeve open on the Iron Maiden album. The record slides in easy enough. Nobody will be able to tell.

At the register, the guy charges me $7.56. I give him a $10 and walk away. My heart beating so fast I’m dizzy. My hands and feet go cold when he shouts.

“You forgot your record.”

“Oh.” I turn back stumbling to the counter. “Thanks.”

“Sure thing.” He hands me the bag and smiles. I stand in place and stare through him to the posters covering the wall in back of him. “Don’t you want it kid? You paid for it already.”

“Yeah.” I feel my legs moving fast to the door again.

“You want your change?” He shouts after me.

The weight of the bag in my hand pulls me lopsided all the way home. By the time I get in the house, I’m dragging the bag up the stairs. Thump thump thumping on each one.

The door locked behind me, I light five candles on the floor in the shape of a star. I lay a small mirror down in the center. The turntable on my lap, I'm sitting cross legged. The needle hovers just above the record surface. Despite the powerless plug on the floor in front of me, it's spinning really fast. Static dances around and through me filling the room, motes of dust in razor thin beams of light. The speaker cables writhing, snakes free from tethering speakers. A woman's voice crawls under the white noise.


***PAUSE***

Did you know that you don't have to speak Latin or Mesopotamian or even R'lyeh to cast a summoning spell? Sure it sounds real mysterious and works great in movies or on tv. It's not the words themselves that have that power. It's the intent. Demons and spirits don't have to hear fancy sounds to answer you. All they require is the need.


***PLAY***

She says,

“Morax, delight in the invitation. The gate is open and welcoming you.”

Clouds form in the mirror. Hoof beats thunder.

“Come to your children and live in this world again.”

The shadows become a bull raging toward me. A golden ring pierces his septum. Pale flesh in the shape of a human face smiles at me from between his enormous shoulders. Pounding like a thousand drums, the bull charges through its reflection and disappears leaping my head.

“He is come.”

The floor falls away. Nothing above below ahead behind. The high pitched ringing in my ears is the only sound. Eyelids open and close making no change to the blankness. My chest squeezes tight as a fist. Fingers brush gently across my chin. A sharpened nail traces the curve of my bottom lip pulling it down.

Flaccid, sickly wet, the icy extension pushes into my mouth. It swirls the inside of my cheeks absorbing the saliva and pulsing while twisting down my throat. It spreads into my lungs, filling strange new marrow into my bones. I am left here alone.

Shivering.


When I wake up, the room is black. I reach a hand into the emptiness. Fingers strain to wiggle in the cold, thickness of it. My mouth opens and a sour taste coats my tongue. I shout for my Dad. The sound of my voice echoes back at me from all directions in staggered times. Some quick, whispered and overlapped, others shouting delayed by seconds.

The candles remain in place as puddles of wax. The needle sits still at the center of the record. One long scratch, slightly less black than the rest of the vinyl, strikes out in oblong ovals over the surface. My legs are asleep from sitting in this position for so long. It’s too difficult to stand without holding on to things. There are drops and drags of the melted wax between the candles. The shape of the star burned into the carpet.

My door leans against the wall having come unhinged. The bolts are on the floor standing straight up covered by a thick, brownish-gray substance. They reflect light coming through the window that hurts my eyes. All the pictures along the hallway are on the floor. None of the frames are broken. There is no glass anywhere.

I don’t smell Dad’s morning cup of coffee or toast heating up in the oven. I don’t hear the talk radio or his electric shaver chipping away at his daily beard. The lingering scent of Old Spice doesn’t fill the air next to his bedroom door. His bed is made, not slept in. Looking out the front window, his yellow VW rests quiet and still in the driveway.

“Dad?” Other than my voice the house is quiet. He isn’t in the kitchen, living room or his office at the back of the house. The surface of the pool is crystal pure and inviting. My towel from yesterday afternoon crumpled in a pile on the back of the chair where I left it.

There is no note on the fridge. I shrug my shoulders and make myself a bowl of corn flakes with a spoonful of sugar dumped over the top. The TV doesn’t work. I smack the side. The screen is nothing but static. I hit it again.

Submerged in the grains of gray and black, I see the shape of a person with their arms and legs spread wide. I sit on the edge of the couch squinting my eyes. The dots and lines crawl in and out of each other. The image begins solidifying. More details grow clearer with every bite I chew.

“Good morning.” The voice crackles from the tiny speaker on the lower right corner of the set. “We are so pleased you invited us here.” She laughs from the wall behind me. My head swivels around seeing nothing but tan painted plaster. “It’s so warm and lovely. We had grown so tired of the cold.”

The shape is a man. His face drawn in lines raggedly illustrating a scream. His mouth is an oval filled with white. His entire body writhes. The static lines pull at his fingers and toes unraveling him one pixel at a time. Dad cries out but all I hear is hissing static. Then a crash. The cereal bowl tumbles from my useless hands through our glass coffee table. Shards fly into the television screen piercing his body. The static he bleeds pours from the bottom of the screen to the thick carpet. I lift my feet while it spreads. I don’t want it to touch me.

I am silent at school. I don’t raise my hand in class. I sit alone at recess. I don’t tell any stories about summoning the demon. I don’t share how Dad is slowly dying inside our TV. I walk past the bus and take the long way home looking at my feet step after step.

I sleep in his bed trying to find his smell on the sheets. I sometimes watch the TV and watch him. It’s hard to see him like that though. There is less and less of him in there every day. I talk to him. I don’t know if he can hear me. His arms and legs were gone yesterday. Today it's his ears. Maybe tomorrow there won't be any of him left.

The ghosts are here all the time now. I think I liked it better before.

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    i live. i breathe. i write.
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