mordicai caeli (mordicai) wrote,
mordicai caeli
mordicai

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setting quill to flesh, metatron discovers the gunmetal blue-black of the ink. his collected shards of memory pierce hands, carelessly, & when he examins them he finds only more riddles. in this one he tried to leave the room- why? what about this part; he was talking sense about art, it seems like sense when he runs his hands over it. it has the smell of an informed opinion.

earlier, the angel metatron remembers saying that fiction writers who only invent a plot suffer in comparison to science-fiction writers who invent a frame for their story. its kind of true, in an idealized world where most science-fiction is not pulp. in the future, maybe. trapped within the tunnel of time.
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