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Ambient Palace

2am. The eyes open. The small television is snowing, the blue-tinted white building pressure against the glass; the ocean crashing against the one inch tweeter, pleading with reality for its release. A million ping pong balls on mousetraps in a cascading series of reactions, as seen from space. Or a tight close up of the vibrating sub-atomic particles of the eye of a needle. Possibly a tiny camel.

The eyelids pull and push. The tiny alternator turns over and over. A ring of starvation in the hosts belly.


She won the auction, the auction to be present at his autopsy. It wouldn’t happen for at least 50 years, but if she outlived him, the opportunity was hers. He was unsure why he offered the prize; he didn’t need the money, not really. He mostly did it because he had never heard of anything like it before. He liked the idea of someone wanting him only for his body.

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