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What use is there in talking about something in the language of what it is not? There was a fingerling potato
There were no wounds on the body that I could see, but it was true her expression was one of abject horror. The lower jaw seemed unhinged. Her fingers were spread open and curled back, as if she would
Where is the line between the world we share and the worlds that exist exclusively for each of us? It’s difficult to believe anything anyone says. Add to that the fact that every strange detail can ultimately be explained away by someone else, often in more ways than one, and the truth behind each account feels so far out of reach that we are perpetually in a situation where everything known has been described and yet nothing has been resolved.”
“But you didn’t know me before,” he said. “You’ve only met me this way. I was a mess before. And then suddenly so much better? It was like I’d passed through some screen and into an entirely different life altogether. Death, maybe. Or so went the story I proposed to myself every night before bed.”
There is no right way to do a thing; there is only doing it and not. That I could even carry this thought revealed to me that I had not yet given myself up in full to nihilism, to the apparently unrestrained chaos of the world. Living was not impossible, no; it was difficult. I knew this. I had thought it before, but every thought requires repetition, as it takes time for the grooves of our fundamental beliefs to fully form.
There were no ghosts here. Only a group of careless boys, brimming with unbridled power and perversion, and a man who had taken it upon himself to use them as he pleased.