![]() ![]() No, wrong, wrong is closer, met a Stranger, ran away, a former crush and he was different, so utterly not-him it terrified her and she ran, they blur into each other, spin spin spinning, because the distortion visited the bookstore close by and a man got lost there, never to return, and the woman, living in the flat on top of the shop, she hates her florals everywhere, she hates the plates and cups and towels, but it’s a distraction because she met. He thinks about it, enough to let the buns in the oven burn and tries to take them out and burns his hand- His hand, his hand is wrong, his head is wrong. It makes no sense, the newest assistant, Brian, sneaks out during work time to smoke and call his girlfriend, and the man at the bakery down the street had an encounter with the web this morning, he’s terrified of his cellar, his attic, for good reasons, his wife doesn’t believe him however, she thinks he’s paranoid and she is wrong, maybe he’ll make a statement later. But nobody is coming in, until the fog appears. His eyes open, unseeing, while Seeing too much at once, his ghostly-pale face twitching ever so slightly, mumbling to himself. ![]() There is no noise from inside, at least none that can be heard from the outside, but if someone came to look, they would find the new director of the Institute sprawled out in his office chair, the phone on his desk dangling from his fingers by the cable. His name is written on it with golden letters, and as usual, it’s shut. The office-door of one Elias Bouchard is foggy glass in wood. ![]()
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