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The ten thousand things and the one true only.

by Kip Manley

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Four on the floor.

203 days ago.

But why dwell on what’s been and done and gone, baby, gone. —The first draft of no. 26, “ – only borders lie – ”, is 16,375 words long. Short, for a first draft, but that’s good, that’s good: there are a number of scenes here that need not to be what they are, and I need room to swing a machete. (There’s a whole character running around in there that paradoxically enough there isn’t enough room for; patrons will know more what I mean.)

But so much for having five in the pocket by the time we launch, ha ha.

But we weren’t gonna dwell! —Well maybe a little. —Of all the chapters of vol. 3 to be written thus far, this one, the fourth one, the one that was just going to be a simple monster-of-the-week bughunt, and maybe a memory palace up on Mount Tabor, maybe, this one has ended up being by far the most different, as perhaps you’ll see when it’s released. —But for all that, I’m still where I was going to, in the strictest terms of characters A and points B and facts C in time for the various events D; and yet, having gotten where I was going by zigging this way, instead of that, well. —I’m not sure, I guess, what happens next?

Which is pretty much mostly where I was the last time I wrote one of these, back in April—a mere 203 days ago. (Don’t do the math. It’s gruesome.) —I think the next scene, the first of no. 27, “ – tends to crumble – ”, I think it’s going to start in that blue attic, which is mostly just a painted-over memory of that white attic, the one I glimpsed that time I went to a Hallowe’en party dressed as the Fool, and the woman dressed as Death slipped me some acid; later, we hung out in a cemetery. —It was the nineties. You know how it was.

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