Prospectus
You know what I can't give you, he says quietly.
The world, I know, says [redacted], knows how he would write it in the book of the dead and cross it out again, sacrifice with the stroke of a pen, a smudge on the second knuckle of his right pinky finger. He would never do this, was not capable, not with his own heart.
The lighting isn't that great. The hairs on his arms turn blonde, white on raised goosebumps. Woven textiles of a trillion cells stretch like desert dunes to form around fire, warmth, what he had searched for, long ago and far away, a spark in the dark.
And I don't need, he begins, but [redacted] interrupts.
Okay, but you know the value of secrets, he asks.
I don't like secrets that much, [redacted] admits.
The world, I know, says [redacted], knows how he would write it in the book of the dead and cross it out again, sacrifice with the stroke of a pen, a smudge on the second knuckle of his right pinky finger. He would never do this, was not capable, not with his own heart.
The lighting isn't that great. The hairs on his arms turn blonde, white on raised goosebumps. Woven textiles of a trillion cells stretch like desert dunes to form around fire, warmth, what he had searched for, long ago and far away, a spark in the dark.
And I don't need, he begins, but [redacted] interrupts.
Okay, but you know the value of secrets, he asks.
I don't like secrets that much, [redacted] admits.