Friday, April 13, 2012

Thousand: Seven Hundred Seventeen

I could drink wine, the girl thinks. But as she gazes into the light, not blinded at all, the angel smiles and raises the chalice as though in a toast. And fades away. To be replaced by the officious visage of the keykeeper overseer who the girl last saw peeking into an empty box. Or a box full of fog. The overseer opens her mouth and it is blank. No teeth, no tongue, no shadow even. Then she is blanked out and the door might as well be open on a white-washed wall. With an effort the girl glances over

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