Table of Contents | 12 August 2002
He rested his chin in front of the pin box on the black bedroom dresser and watched the pins slide slowly, one at a time, toward his face.
"I suspect that if I tried to write space opera I'd end up with a tightly-knit, angry society within a generation ship. I'll stick to what I'm good at."
They are her tentacles / Once again drawing him in / To her bed of infinite recursion
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