closure.

A flutter of hair out the fourth story window | I have to see her again.  No matter what happens, I'll keep on moving.  Until this life runs out of me, I'll keep on walking.  I could never say that out loud.

Adam put down his pen and sighed.  There --

      She was there.  In the fourth story window.

The pen fell, a blazing epithet of untold greatness in its own world.  The last Footstep echoed in the corridor as he ran.

      She was there.

discipline.

Ink.
            work harder
     
      The rush of thoughts was unpleasant.  A rush of blood.

Kill all the lawyers.  She's coming up the stair- | Give her the key. | How many hours has it been?

A fade of blood.  

King sat on the framework, waiting for Female Knight to wade her way through the pressing throng.  Four fingers tapped nervously against the rough craftsmanship.  | wine | The glass rattled as the fist knocked on the wood impatiently.  

      "I'm home, King."

vanish.

"Doctor!  The conclave."

      The boy reclined on the park bench.  His gloved hand clenched an engraving pen tightly, burning an image onto the surface of the seat.

            Time Stared illness use Imagination  

      The businessman reclined on the park bench.  His gloved hand smoothed over the old mahogany surface of the seat.

            Time   are  ill     us          ion

invisible.

Sometimes you feel like there's a red string pulling you towards an event you can't avoid.  An event that will shape your death.  The people who run along the train platform to wave goodbye to their best friends.  The people who walk use the stairs and not the elevator.  That red string always feels like it's there -- but you never know what other strings might be pulling at your heart: threatening to dismember you into a grotesque mannequin of your own self.  Self-image.

      Wind chill.  This trench coat is quite handy.

            Morgan shuddered and stalked down 61st, violently aggravating the peaceful snow fallen onto the sidewalk.

      

Chapter 1.1 - Intrusion.

I pulled the covers over my head.  Snore. The floor creaked.  Footsteps.  A tap on the shoulder.  The covers came off without me realizing.  A girl.  Four, five years old.  Looks like... a doll.  The ceramic lips parted.  "What's your name?"  "My name?"  Schir.  This one's hard to pronounce.  I should -- "Yes."  "My name's, name's Chris.  Mister Chris.  What's yours?"  "Andromeda."  What.  Kicking off the covers, I stood up slowly.  The floor was there; so were my feet.  I was bleeding.  No touch, he says.  Can't not touch anything, I can't feel anything.  It's like... I don't have a nervous system.  Hand.  "Andromeda?"  "Mister Chris?"  "Can I touch you for a second?"  Sounded worse than I thought it would.  "Touch?"  Oh, dear.

Chapter 1.0

How long -- what... "-sign Schir.  Ensign Schir."  "Who."  Ah, this one.  Dark.  Wrong protocol.  I took a deep breath.  "Main dialogue?"  "John Four.  Room.  Over."  The voice bounced around in my head.  "Brief."  "No touch, Four.  Limiter, Sixty.  Over."  "Wilco."  "John Four Out."  Static.  That was quick.  I rippled a hand over the table until I found the lamp.  The sheets were bleached a dirty yellow.  Why did they choose a bed?  Horrid fashion sense.  "Right... Room.  I can figure that out myself."  My voice echoed hollowly in the glass... Glass walls?  I see.  Even the static had faded.  The door -- opaque.  Fancy tha -- opened.