Dear Readers, |
Someone addressed in a Not Sent Letter has found out about it and gotten in touch with me. A diegetic breach like this could be overwhelming — a conceptual spoiler to permanently upset the balance of the project. |
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Was I ever a disembodied voice (speaking perhaps from death or the couch)? I’m not sure I can handle this. Panic is threatening to propel me somewhere I don’t want to go. |
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In this particular instance, however, a benign third party has crossed the wires and all realities remain stable. |
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Then again, maybe not. I’m wondering about things I used to dismiss: Are we the stories we tell ourselves? Do we become the stories we tell ourselves? Are we comprised in part of stories we’ve never had anything to do with? |
Paradise Lost is in my head: |
Did I request thee, Maker, from my clay
To mould me man? Did I solicit thee
From darkness to promote me?
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At least Sean G. and I are back in touch. |
jeremy |