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To turn just left of true, a shade right of false, below the knock-head ceiling of the world.

Follow

Reasons for pursuit are manifold but less well known. Alighting on the stairs, stepping out into the hall, cutting across the flow of the myriad pedestria cluttering the public ways, they make their turns. Sometimes, some times and in some places, then, they do not go unseen; a longing, insomniac wandering, perhaps a memory strange and unbidden is their momentary undoing.

You have seen them, too, or else you would not still be reading.

Oh, so close; so near and so fine. The emulation of the simulation of the facsimile of anima, other words both useless and prized. Resulting simulacra; deft and lithe, they dance across your vision. It is a rare and subtle moment, that one time you may in fact just...stop. Stop and look; retrace, go back, search, seek, perhaps (in wonder) find. They weren't a vision, nor a dream; rather, sight of the sightless, not unseen for once in oh those many transits of our vision.

Motion normal, action familiar, path plausible, even, but...still. Something that is wrong will gently touch tongue to teeth and tap with hesitation at your will, enough to bring you to a halt (to break the flow of day or night) and send you back. In blandest sweet, the taste of salt; a streak of sour in the sense of time. Into the path of others, yes, they came...without collision, nor disturbance, yet they turned (again) so shortly thereupon and then were lost.

Now we come to it. There was nowhere for them to go. There was nowhere from whence they came; that one small time you turn to look, a dead-blank wall will stare back from the point at which their presence first was known and took you by surprise. A dare, perhaps, to have you see the entrance from their world if only you could tell it from your own; a wall that is (to them) a door, faceless wonders enter our foyer of the real on errands swift and silent call.

What, then, to do?

Follow.

Recognize.

Eventual, it comes. To you once you have made the switch; evinced a change inside your brain which will not let you let them by but from then on will twitch with notice of the strange. There, that one there; came from the alley 'cross the way WHICH ISN'T THERE and then with nimble trick did dance away again between the two parked cars, without emerging on the sidewalk on the other side. Entranced, you make your way back to the point upon the street from which they did come, and then - brief small trick - there is a flicker, on the wall; a blackness strobing in the deep that brick nor mortar nor the weight of stone can hide. There; there. Touch the place and taste the time, reach out with all you have within-

I N T R U S I O N

If then you're fortunate, nay, blessed, a small plain hole may then appear. A tiny point of anti-light which will become the key with which you may unravel all that is dear and plain and, yes, familiar to you now.

Anonymous, without their names but with their selves worn proudly on their belts they walk. Can you join the dance? Can you pick up the motions from the study of the trance of years in which the others walk? Perhaps you can. Perhaps you too will learn to turn hard left into the wall, to slip between where others fall and then to find yourself inside the elevator of the interstitials, level change and static slant where (only there) your name means nought but what you brought. If you're lucky.

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