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The end of the world

By the time he steps inside he’s forgotten the number on the sign.

There’s light in the house but he can’t seem to cast a shadow. It’s almost a relief, to stop worrying when your hand will accidentally loose a monster. He ambles without purpose, taking pleasure in exploration: one room floored in knotty pine, another in oak, their walls shaded blue or celadon or tea rose pink. Multiplicity makes his greed for novelty easy. They never cease to provide.

In one of the rooms, he thought he saw stars through a window; but he has already forgotten where that was.

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