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Entering the Academy "Crap, Crap, Crap," Brian groaned as he hurried past the old oak tree that stood by the main gate, watching over him silently as he dropped the books that he had been carrying haphazardly in both of his arms, sending loose papers flying every which way. Again, he groaned in desperation and dropped to his knees, trying to pick up all the books while simultaneously gathering all the loose papers before they blew away. Even though there wasn't the slightest breeze, they still managed to slip through his fingers and get carried away, as if by invisible thieves. Although, he thought, rolling his eyes as he caught his yet-to-be-started paper on Artificial Invocation Areas, that may very well be the case. Nevertheless, he managed to gather all his stuff and continue hisapparently endlesstrek to the other side of campus, with nothing more than a dirtied pair of pants and some lost time.
Suddenly, to Brian's shock and dismay, the obnox
Lifeless Zero black dark nothing zero zero darkness black endless nothing black dark dark zero nothing black dark nothing endless nothing zero zero dark dark dark DARK!
An endless, sporadic string of empty thoughts, of which define our very existence. These thoughts of nothingness are what keep us sane. We must continue to think and think and think until all forms of thought have been exhausted, and then we must continue to think. We think lest we go mad. Our existence is one of pure thought, endless, repeating thoughts of nothing and zeroes. We have no senses to perceive our nothingness, which only furthers our madness, for how can our existence be a real one if we cannot even perceive it? It must be impossible, and yet, we exist. It is a drab existence of thought and darkness, but it is one nonetheless. Well, we wish it were one of darkness, but we cannot barely recall what darkness is. All we have are the echoes of memories to remind us that there is more than
Bo.When Lindsay was born, Bo was there. Standing beside her mother, he was the first thing she ever saw. But he was not her father; her father stood on the other side.
Bo was there until the very moment she died.
The sun shone bright through the windows of her pink-laden room. She loved pink. And black.
“Because Bo is black,” she’d told her parents.
Her imaginary friend, they soon concluded.
“Bo is all black,” she described one night as her father tucked her in, “His skin and his hair and everything. He doesn’t talk a lot.”
Her father frowned.
“He sounds scary.”
“He’s not,” she insisted.
Bo sat on the bed and said nothing.
Her father kissed her good night and turned out the light.
“Why can’t Dad see you?” she asked.
“Are you real?”
“Are you real?” he replied.
“How do you know?”
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