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Use this space for notes and reminders to yourself.
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A great place to keep your fantastic ideas, like, "Hey! I need to write more sentences about crickets and English gentlemen with unruly beards."
First clues that it had gone horribly wrong: the ripping sound overhead and the gently drifting lint.
Listen to Pink Floyd a lot, and whenever it gets to the part where it goes Did you exchange a walk-on part in the war/ for a lead role in a cage/, say to the radio, ‘Roger, you didn’t have a fucking clue how a lifetime of compromise can suck the soul dry - but it’s for damn sure you know now.’
Despite the clues strewn carelessly about, Gertrude remained oblivious, studying her fingernails, wondering whether they’d look better in purple or green.
Gertrude restudied each of the clues carefully, sorting and filing details into her inbuilt filing system and concluded that she knew she knew the truth and at the end of the day it really made no difference to the world - so went back to studying her green and purple nails, wondering if she should have perhaps gone for one colour rather than listening to, and taking, all advice offered.
As Henry tumbled head over heels, the air rushing by faster and faster as he passed through the clouds—up, down, he couldn’t tell—and their wet, cold dew leapt onto him, clinging to his skin and clothes, he realized just how easy stepping off of the precipice of enlightenment had been, and even though he had not a single clue where he was going or what awaited him at the end of his tumble—if indeed there was an end, or if indeed it was really he that tumbled and not the world around him, although at this point he somehow knew instinctively that it mattered very little—he closed his eyes, smiling, arms folded lightly across his chest as the roar of the universe gradually faded, lower and dimmer until finally all that Henry could hear was the warm silent welcome of his return home.
Col. Mustard did it in the library with his flatulence.
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