one more draft…

the literary tribulations of bill blais

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daily - 74

25 April, 2008 | story-by-day

“Oh.”

Officer Gerent’s soft, ridiculously insufficient remark hangs awkwardly in the room for a long moment, but I hardly notice; my stomach is sinking into my toes and my mind feels like it’s going numb from the inside out.

Two fee in front of me, a few hard glints of white within the general grey and black shadows are the only discernible evidence of the lunar resorts on the heatmap; empty light reflecting off the rigid glass and steel biospheres. The rest is a dead, charcoal grey, the cold remains of a forgotten fire.

This is impossible.

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