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The girl knocked tentatively at the door, and then rapped just a bit harder.

 

"Come," was all she heard.

The young maid opened the massive oak door and let herself into her Master's chambers, juggling her tray.

 

She presented herself to the man with a brief nod, and offered, "Good morning, sir. Your coffee, eggs, bacon, and fried potatoes".

 

"Just set it there on the corner of my desk, Diedre. I will get to it directly."

She did as directed, and left the silver cover over the breakfast offering, so that it would remain reasonably warm.

 

He resumed his pensive study of the computer screen.

 

"Something troubling on this morning, my Lord?" she queried.

 

"Ah, it's this blasted new thread, entitled, 'Delete'. A new poster began to write something, and then apparently thought the better of it."

 

"Most vexing, then."

 

"Yes, indeed."

 

The man paused to gaze out the window at the dawn arising.

The staff and cadre of Gibson Forum moderators were at their morning exercise, and were about on the vast parade ground, snapping through their calisthenics with military precision.

 

He smiled. Comforting to know that things were in order at the grand old website, this morning as ever.

 

She ventured, "Your Dad, he started this web forum, sir. How would he have handled such a thing?"

 

"The Old Man? Ha, I venture to say that he would have deleted the blasted thing without another thought. But still, there's something about this thread that merits further contemplation."

 

His finger hovered over the Delete button, gently wavering.

 

Finally the girl relieved the moment. "Here, sir. Let's just you have your morning meal, and put this off until later. Give it an hour or two to stew in the backdrop. What's the worst that could happen?"

She set about making his tray.

 

The aroma of rich Columbian coffee and crisp, apple-smoked bacon brought the man out of his reverie, and he smiled.

 

"Yes. What's the worst that could happen?"

 

:-k[crying] :mellow:

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Someone wants to delete their Historic Collection? How horrible! Don't let them be deleted. I'll take 'em!

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I pondered what happened to the letters that we delete or backspace over. Are we some kind of gods that create letters and then at a whim, just delete them? And where to they go? Since they were never posted, are they considered unused letters and go back on the shelf? Or do they go into some kind of limbo? And if something DOES get posted and we delete it, are those letters sent to some kind of rebuilding facility like an arsenal rebuilt rifle?

 

Maybe Times New Roman letters sometimes get their serifs broken...Suppose they get ALL their serifs taken off and are rebuilt as Arial?

 

And what if, just...what if there are a finite number of letters in the universe and we're just using them up helter skelter like there's no end in sight?

 

One day we'll go to type something and all there'll be left are Q's, Z's and X's.

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I pondered what happened to the letters that we delete or backspace over. Are we some kind of gods that create letters and then at a whim, just delete them? And where to they go? Since they were never posted, are they considered unused letters and go back on the shelf? Or do they go into some kind of limbo? And if something DOES get posted and we delete it, are those letters sent to some kind of rebuilding facility like an arsenal rebuilt rifle?

 

Maybe Times New Roman letters sometimes get their serifs broken...Suppose they get ALL their serifs taken off and are rebuilt as Arial?

 

And what if, just...what if there are a finite number of letters in the universe and we're just using them up helter skelter like there's no end in sight?

 

One day we'll go to type something and all there'll be left are Q's, Z's and X's.

 

You must read "The Library Of Babel" by Jorge Luis Borges (if you haven't already).....

 

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Library_of_Babel

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"Yes. What's the worst that could happen?"

 

 

Fifteen minutes later the man swallowed the last of the coffee and leaned back; for a moment he savoured the aftertaste of his breakfast.

Swivelling in his chair, he put the tray aside and regarded the computer screen in front of him.

 

Alright. He'd made his decision. He knew exactly who he wanted to deal with this.

 

He thumbed the intercom. And spoke three words.

 

"Get me Sparquelito."

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The late morning sun cut through 16th century glass, and illuminated the dust motes on the bookshelves, dancing odd, prism-like shards of colour across the man’s desktop.

 

The writing paper was most posh, and each sheet of parchment spoke of old money and glaring sun beams on white Egyptian cotton.

 

He squinted and longed for a brandy drink, but knew that lady of the house kept a close ear to the gossip and the slur and innuendo of the hired help. And he knew just how much they disapproved of his love of the spirits.

 

“Best to just wait until noon,” he remarked to no one in particular.

He drummed his fingers on the stout oak desk.

 

Suddenly the door to his chambers burst open with a stout thump, and two rough men entered with a vagabond figure.

 

The taller of the two men threw the unfortunate fellow harshly onto the floor.

Both employees turned on their heel and began to exit, but the shorter henchman lurched back, picked up the reprobate, and then threw him to the floor yet again.

“Teach you to make a run for it, you scurvy fopdoodle!”

 

The testy man stood then erect, straightened his cap, and departed the room with his surly partner in tow.

 

Sparquelito brought himself to his feet, and then righted his top hat and his dusty Inverness jacket with great care.

 

“How are you, John?” inquired the man at the large oak desk.

 

“I have been better,” the scuffed-up wanderer offered.

He turned his head slightly then, and contemplated the view out the window.

“But then again, I have been much worse.”

 

He paused, and then remarked, “I love what you have done with the parade grounds. Yer dad would be proud.”

 

“Yes. He would be.”

 

“And the house is in tip-top shape. And the web forum, I hear. Everything in Bristol fashion.”

 

“Yes.”

 

“And Diedre. She has grown to be quite the young lady.”

 

“Yes. John, listen to me, speaking of Diedre, she ought to be afforded the chance to get to know her father. You know?“

 

“The hell you say.”

 

“Don’t bandy about with me, old friend. You have been out and about on the Continent long enough. Germany for the past few years, or so I heard, right?”

 

“Jawohl, mein lieber freund.”

The wanderer then brightened. “Say, speaking of Deutschland, what say we have a bit of this? It’s Asbach Uralt from the Rudesheim bend of the Rhein river. The very best brandy ever.”

 

He produced a bottle, set it on the man’s desk, and uncorked it.

“Will you join me?”

 

The master of the house gave with a sigh, and bent over to his lower desk drawer, and produce a stout pair of drinking glasses.

“Okay, I’ll have a drink with you, and then we must get down to business. Do you hear me, John?”

 

Sparquelito poured an even measure into each glass, and then raised one of them in a toast.

“I hear you, old friend. Here’s to getting down to business.”

 

Outside, the hounds began to bay, as though some disturbance had arisen on the grounds.

 

[mellow]

 

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The two men chatted amicably, though warily, and eventually enjoyed a lunch of sausage, kippers, brie, and thin, lightweight rice crackers. With a bottle of white wine from the Nahe Valley of Germany.

 

At one point, the man folded his napkin, enjoyed a swig of the Müller-Thurgau, and then cleared his throat.

 

“So, there’s just a bit of the website business, and then we must really address the topic of your daughter.”

 

“What’s on with Gibson Forums? She’s the flagship of the guitar web enterprises, to be certain? What on earth might come about with it that you should make it so that I were dragged here in the boot of a Citroën Bertone Xantia of all things? And after nine years away, no less!”

 

Sparquelito was clearly agitated, and poured himself another glass of the white.

 

The man leaned forward, “What is on is that we have had yet another of the cryptic postings that begin with one thing, end with zero content, and then follow with an admonition to simply delete the original thread altogether. It stinks of Moscow, and either the KGB or the Spetsnaz (Russian: спецназ) web interlopers.”

 

“And so what’s that got to do with me?”

 

“You spent many years traveling about in and out of Ukraine and Siberia. You know these people. What’s your take on it, John?”

 

Sparquelito smiled, and helped himself to a daub of brie on a double stack of rice crackers.

 

“These communion wafers really are quite tasty. Much better than the ones we served to the flock as altar boys back in the mid-1960’s.”

He chomped the lovely mixture, and swilled some more of the wine.

 

He continued, “Serving Father Walter, as I recall. A lovely man, though overly fond of the Scotch whiskey.”

 

The man at the oak desk blurted out, “They were all given to the drink, John. As are the two of us, truth be told, to this day! What’s that got to do with the curious web postings, the requests to delete, and the KGB-tainted IP Addresses?”

 

Sparquelito leaned forward, “Nothing, good and dear friend. My advice is to let it go. Just assume that some sad chap began a fresh web posting with all good intentions, and then changed his mind about it. Do the right thing. Delete it.”

 

“Can you guarantee that there is nothing untoward going on, nothing that threatens the sanctity and integrity of the Gibson Forums??”

 

“I can guarantee that much. Yes. Just delete the damned thing, and you may sleep the sleep of the righteous and just web forum owner and chief executive.”

 

The man sat back and digested the information brought to him by his old school-chum and former web forum partner.

He sighed.

 

Right. And so now we must discuss Deidre, and what is to become of her. She really deserves the opportunity to finally learn who it is that………”

 

At that moment, the girl herself rapped on the heavy door and entered the man’s chamber.

 

“My Lord, may I have a word?”

 

[scared]

 

 

96813a11063936c12336a5bc098fc5ee.png

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Deidre entered, and paused to greet Sparquelito.

 

“Hello, Uncle. It’s been far too long.

She kissed him on the cheek, and then turned and faced the Master of the house.

 

She spoke.

“My Lord, I know ye have a lot on your plate, but here it is plain and simple,” she paused and gulped.

 

Her eyes were fixed forward on the wall.

 

“I have an opportunity to better myself, and I would ask your blessing to depart this house, and to attend the University. I have secured a scholarship, and if all goes well, I will in two month’s time, be in studies at the local college, and that will remove me from my duties here, sir.”

 

She gulped, and continued on.

 

“I would ask for your support in this endeavor. You have always been so kind and benevolent, and since the passing of me Mum, and most tender and good-hearted in all things large and small. I ask for more of the same, good sir.”

 

The man was floored.

 

He blurted, “Of course you have my support, and your leave of this place, though disconcerting to me personally, will pay dividends far beyond our mundane and even selfish routines here at Gibson Forums. Please know that you will go to school with both my blessing and my heartfelt wishes for much success!”

 

He halted in his speech, and took the time to blot a tear from his eye.

“And you may go forward with this endeavor knowing that we will personally cover all your miscellaneous expenses, such as books, lab fees, and meals.”

 

The man then directed his gaze at his old friend John.

“And we will be most grateful of you would continue to reside here, and allow all of us in your circle of family to assist in your studies and preparations for exams.”

 

He continued to stare at Sparquelito.

“It was rumored that your father was quite the academic genius, though a bit of a rogue and a renegade cadet.”

 

Deidre gave pause.

“My father, sir?”

 

“Yes, I think it’s time that you came to know who it was that sired you, and who romanced your mother, the chief of staff of the kitchen of this good house, and then who departed so unceremoniously not long after you were born.”

 

The girl blinked.

“I’m not sure I understand, my Lord. My father, though not one to admit openly his paternity, was very much present in this good house, all the way until his passing just four years ago.”

 

The man blurted out, “What in blazes are you talking about, girl? Your dad is standing right here in front of you!”

 

Sparquelito advised, “Steady, old sport. Things aren’t always as they seem.”

 

Deidre softened her tone.

“I apologize, my Lord. It appears that the entire house has gone out of their way to spare you this disconcerting revelation. But the truth is……”

 

She took a deep breath, and endeavored to elucidate.

 

Sparquelito spoke up instead.

“My old friend, Deidre’s father was your father. You and she are brother and sister.”

 

He coughed. “More like half-brother and half-sister. But whatever the case, she’s not my daughter. Deidre is the offspring of your old dad, the creator of this entire enterprise, and Gertrude, the mistress of the kitchen staff. Everyone knew, including your long-suffering Mum, but they never informed you for fear of harming your lofty opinion of the grand old patriarch.”

 

He chuckled.

“It was easy money to blame the parenthood on me, considering my reputation for wandering about with the ladies, and my great affection for Deidre’s mum.

 

The man slumped in his leather chair.

“My God, how could I have been so blind? All the signs were right there in front of my eyes, and I never caught on, never once!”

 

He swallowed, and then rose to his feet.

“Deidre, come here, girl. And please accept my apologies for my ignorance and my blindness. I have always loved you like my own kin, and here it is that you are very much my own flesh and blood!”

 

The girl fell into his arms and he embraced her with enormous affection.

 

He kissed her forehead, and murmured, “And to think I have been operating under the assumption that Uncle John was your real father. And holding him accountable for horrible crimes of negligence, a lack of caring, and cavalier nonchalance. My sweet baby sister!”

 

He stared into Sparquelito’s eyes.

“John, can you forgive me all this, my old friend?”

 

“I already have,” exclaimed the dusty wanderer.

 

“Now, can we alert the kitchen that it’s time for a grand supper? I am getting hungry, and I think that the Gibson Forum staff is more than ready to accommodate a long overdue celebration!”

 

=D> :lol: :P :o :)

 

 

 

 

 

 

84d8be7d264a01c16d5689b9e092c4ea.jpg

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“Now, can we alert the kitchen that it’s time for a grand supper? I am getting hungry, and I think that the Gibson Forum staff is more than ready to accommodate a long overdue celebration!”

 

 

Suddenly, before anyone could answer, there was a loud crash and the door flew open.

"FREEZE!" Screamed a voice that was only too familiar to the man behind the desk.

 

"Alright! Department of Fish and Wildlife! This is a raid!" Several burly, uniformed figures rushed into the room.

Sparquelito could hear the sound of a helicopter getting closer. He knew what it was by the noise of the engine.

 

"Coolgore! You again! What now?" The man behind the desk was red-faced with anger. He moved to stand protectively in front of the girl.

 

One of the intruders, a squat, ugly man, removed his sunglasses and glared at the three occupants of the room.

"It's Colonel Coolgore to you, and you're under arrest for CITES violations."

 

"What violations? Goddamit you can't just bust in here like this!"

"I just did" snarled Coolgore. "And I don't have to tell you a damn thing either. You're coming with me. Take him! And boys, search the place!"

A struggle ensued; the man was seized and hustled out of his own office.

 

"And you, young lady, are going right back to Bryn Mawr!" Two hard-faced, uniformed older women appeared at the door and before Sparquelito could intervene, had positioned themselves either side of the girl like prison guards and marched her out.

 

Coolgore turned his ire on Sparquelito; "As for you....you are under arrest as well. I suggest you come quietly. You have the right to remain silent -"

"But why? What have I done? What's the charge?"

 

Coolgore smirked. "Literary violations, schmuck. We got a printout of this thread. We fooled you good, didn't we?"

"But...what...you mean...." Spluttered Sparquelito. He suddenly felt very cold.

"That's right, you jerk. We set you up. The Delete thread was prepared by our elite squad and you fell for it. Look at this" - Coolgore held up the printout - "you can't even spell Diedre right consistently. Then there's the German so-called brandy" - he glared at Sparquelito - "I'll bet you never heard of Armagnac, huh? And this too; goddam kippers with brie cheese! That's a serious culinary felony and you're busted!"

Coolgore moved across to the window, opened it and inhaled deeply. "I love the smell of Richlite in the morning" he sneered.

 

By now the helicopter had landed on one of the lawns and the crew had got out. Sparquelito had a flash of recognition. "So let me get this straight" he began, "I've been ensnared by an elite delete and now you've brought in a Huey crewed by Dewey and Louie, is that it Coolgore? Well don't you think you've forgotten just one thing, or should I say someone?"

Coolgore turned to face him and frowned. "Huh? No, we got you in a barrel, in a....." But strangely, oddly, he seemed out of focus; Sparquelito squinted as the tableau blurred and Coolgore's voice turned to a mumble, then faded as the room dissolved into entropy.

 

 

 

 

John Sparquelito came awake suddenly and sat bolt upright in his bed.

Quiet, very quiet in the house; he heard the soft breathing of his sleeping partner, the ticking of the clock, a low hum from the fridge in the kitchen.

 

- What? What just happened?

 

For a moment, as if from a timeless vantage, he saw it all.

 

Someone else had hijacked the thread.

 

It was jdgm, he realised; who had then begun to lose control of the plot and so triggered the dream sequence, a common enough literary get-out device, to resolve it.

Yes, that was the only possible explanation.

He leaned back onto, into, his pillows and considered. All at once, realization came; jdgm was six hours ahead of him, cruising into dawn on the limb of the planet - hell, he must have finished his breakfast by now.

 

It probably wasn't kippers, either.

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No apologies necessary.

 

Your chapter was sublime, and (come to think of it) all my bits were a form of hijacking something that probably should have been deleted anyway.

 

 

I take great pleasure in writing stories and songs, and when inspiration strikes, you have to go with it, no matter where it leads you.

 

 

I once woke up with a song in my head, and I wrote it down and recorded immediately (sang it into an iPhone, of all things).

 

 

It's a really good song, come to think of it.

 

Dierdrre agrees, by the way.

 

:)

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Sparquelito rolled over on his cot, tried to get comfortable, and then sat up and shook off his bed sheet. 

"Blast it. Sleep eludes me. And no matter how hard I pursue it, true slumber is always out of my grasp."
He rubbed his eyes and then gazed with bleary, blood-shot eyes at the clumsy mirror he had fashioned from hammered ration tins during his first year of of confinement. 

The mirror.
It hung on the stone wall two meters away from where he sat. 
John's face and upper torso were distorted and clown-like from this distance. Though from just eight inches away, he was able to divine a reasonable reflection of his face, in order that he might shave, and clean his teeth with the primitive brush and polishing compound that was afforded to him. 

Ten meters above his head, the sodium lamp burned brightly, and hummed its maddening frequency. 
His cell was just two meters by five meters. By ten meters tall. No window.  
He had his cot, a clean sheet that was changed out every three days directly he returned from the showers, a sink below his hand-crafted mirror, and a squat, bidet-like commode. 

No bookcase, no amenities, and no luxuries. 
The God-awful light above was a luxury, in a manner of speaking. 
There was a period of time when it had been extinguished, and he had been forced to sit alone in dark. 
For how long?
There was no telling. 
But now he was grateful for the lamp. 

In this place it was difficult to tell time. 
The normal alternating darkness and light that triggered the usual circadian rhythms was absent. 
John had taken to absurd flights of fancy, and he began to fantasize about a life before this place. 
And a life after this place. 
Though such thoughts were dangerous. 

He had been advised by his interrogators on this matter, many times in the past. 
Best to focus on the here and now. 
Let go of thoughts of freedom, and the life that he knew before this place. 
One or two of the inquisitors actually showed him human kindness, and even offered him sweet treats. 

An Austrian man who questioned him for two weeks in a row actually offered him brandy one evening. 
Sparquelito accepted it gratefully, of course. With no thoughts of subterfuge or malfeasance. 
Or retribution. 

"Happy Christmas then, John," the man sad simply after they had shared the better part of a bottle. 

The prisoner blinked. 
"It's Christmas?" he inquired.

"Ja. Yes, of course. You didn't know?"

"I lose track of time in here. I had no idea."

The man corked the bottle sadly, summoned the guards, and bade John a good evening. 

Lately, alone in his cell, John began to hear things, and to question his sanity. 
This week, in particular, there was a humming sound. 
It was maddening. 
And it came every night, but just for brief periods of time. 
Late, late at night, close to the time when the guards conducted their shift-change. 
The humming, almost grinding sound. Getting closer and closer, or so it seemed. 

"Hello, what's this?" he exclaimed. 
There it was again. 
The noise. 
Louder this time. 

John could almost feel it beneath his feet, beneath the flagstones in the floor of his cell. 
Subtle at first, and then louder.
And louder. 

And so finally it stopped. 

"Am I now insane?" he cried.
"Have I finally lost my mind?"

At that moment, one of the flagstones gave with a brief iron tapping noise, and upended slightly. 
John lifted his feet off the floor, and recoiled in horror. 
The stone shifted upward, settled down a half inch, and then finally popped up and out of its mortar altogether. 

He held his breath, afraid of what was to follow. 

A small rolled-up tube of paper appeared. 
It pushed up out of the cavity left by the upended flagstone, and rolled innocuously beneath Sparquelito's cot. 

He quickly reached down and retrieved the note, unrolled it, and read the words on the scrap of paper. 

The note read, 
HUNKER DOWN IN THE CORNER, AND PLUG YOUR EARS, MATE. THIS IS GOING TO BE VERY LOUD.

John blinked. 
It took a moment for him to digest the message, and then he fairly leapt off the cot and fell into a heap in the corner by the commode. 

At that moment, the floor exploded with a great heave of earth, and bricks and mortar. Fragments of the sink went flying hither and yon. 
He became buried under the rubble, and cried out, meekly. 
"God, please. Mercy."

He coughed, ears ringing, and extended his hand out of the rubble. 
😶


cherry-laithang-NmPpz1jA_JE-unsplash-e15

 

Edited by sparquelito
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Ah...the next instalment....

Will our hero be extracted from his predicament?

What has been going on outside during his incarceration?

Will he need a dental check-up?

And how did the - no!  I'm not letting on; no plot spoilers here, you'll have to wait for the whole thing. 

Sssshh....:-&

 :-$

Edited by jdgm

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On 5/30/2017 at 7:11 PM, ksdaddy said:

I pondered what happened to the letters that we delete or backspace over. Are we some kind of gods that create letters and then at a whim, just delete them? And where to they go? Since they were never posted, are they considered unused letters and go back on the shelf? Or do they go into some kind of limbo? And if something DOES get posted and we delete it, are those letters sent to some kind of rebuilding facility like an arsenal rebuilt rifle?

 

Maybe Times New Roman letters sometimes get their serifs broken...Suppose they get ALL their serifs taken off and are rebuilt as Arial?

 

And what if, just...what if there are a finite number of letters in the universe and we're just using them up helter skelter like there's no end in sight?

 

One day we'll go to type something and all there'll be left are Q's, Z's and X's.

 

Q's, Z's & X's : All words would have to be redefined with the new 3 letter spellings.  

It might happen with notes too. Those damnned shredders were too greedy, playing all those little notes that no one could hear, and now we are left with A# and F# . Its a sort of musical binary. There's only one chord left, and its a power chord written as qQzzz. 

Maybe those letters and notes are held in some celestial recycle bin. The rings of Saturn maybe? If letters & notes are affected by gravity those rings could contain every dead language since the first guttural utterances by primeval baboons. 

Mankind, desperate to salvage language and music, mount a mission to Saturn and are disappointed discover that the rings are in fact comprised of nothing but billions of peanut shells. 

The universe is meaningless and without pity.

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John felt many hands upon him and, in his dazed state, the sensation of being dragged and then descending into the ground beneath the rubble. 

He stumbled and fell, and was assisted into an odd ox-cart, and pulled along for many long minutes down a long, earthen corridor, and then so finally out into the night air. 
His ears pounded with a high keening noise from the blast. 

Clumsy wooden forms and concrete bits and rough screws had pierced his flesh, and they fell away as he was loaded into an Eastern European lorry. He sensed the aroma of a sea-side highway, and the salty fragrance and crisp, nighttime imagery of a grassy bluff overlooking the ocean. 
The doors slammed, and the vehicle lurched forward and then so down a lonely two-laned road. 

John began to speak, and then skilled, gloved hands set about putting an IV into his left arm. 
He objected at first, and then the medications dropped into his bloodstream like a load of bricks. 

He reeled. 

A familiar voice intoned, “Lie still, Uncle. Everything is going to be okay. You are in good hands.”

John coughed for a moment, and then yawned. 
His ears popped as the vehicle descended down a long, cliff-side road and then merged onto a highway of sorts. 

The jostling of the lorry became a soothing rhythm that lulled him into a deep sleep. 
Highway sodium lamps flashed by, one after the other. 

The road hummed beneath the wheels of his transport. 
John dreamt of his cot back in the cell, the rough sheet, and the sodium lamp that had hummed above his head for so many years that he had lost track. 

“This isn’t healthy. I shouldn’t dwell on such notions of this.”

A distant memory, and a voice. His counselor. 

“Happy Christmas then, John.”

In his sleep, he responded, and the rescuers who held him tight on the gurney looked at each other in bewilderment. 

“Happy Christmas. And to all a good night.”

😐



Ba9jbc9YiocH7YB_k1ObkuzgNkL-qPso_FOWO_oh

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