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Fictional Writings of Elleander Grey


  • The man in the arm chair fell asleep outside. The stains in the headrest slowly made him feel so uncomfortable that he gave up his slumber and wobbled down the concrete steps. Everything was slow again. The cars all made way for him and he tipped his hat in gratitude. The people slowly accelerated past him back into oblivion. The man was still there though. Even though they were not. A woman watched the man in the hat move. She wondered what it might be like to be that man who moved so. She thought it must be too complex and painful to really know him. How she was wrong. But she continued to think this way and be content to think it. Her imagination disappeared back to where it had come from and she too went back into oblivion. The man tipped his hat again to another driver who didn’t notice. The man with the hat fell over and died. He left for certain oblivion. The other oblivious humans we may still encounter. They were not dead yet. The driver who did not notice the dead man came to a stop at a wheels for trucks garage store. He bought a few items and died a few years later. The crusade lasted well until the crucifix had landed on a platform made from hell. The single most important type of idea was that the house was intact after they had sold it. The platform had sold first, but the crucifix was a different story. It waited around to bear all the weight of not reading in between the lines. He hadn’t been shown it, but it was made clear that he was jazz. That was the only word that he could use to influence himself that he was correct and everyone else was completely wrong. What a sad story it is. But that is also why he didn’t read it.
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