I once heard the voice of an old man evoke the name of a place where Two Suns would shine on polyethylene mountains, aluminum forests and plastic seas. He maintained that he came upon it in a cardboard box the Law-maker (of whom he d id not further elucidate) delivered to his door. It was written in an unfamiliar script, he said, which resembled runes. I wish that I could pass that secret word to you now but at the time I lingered, too long, on a fool’s errand and when I returned I found it had been buried in the black grave of forgotten memories. My father attributes the whole affair to a confluence of historical forces but I much prefer the quirks of destiny.
9.22-23 (9:2) #156
Minutes to Autumn
The Metafictionist 