The pages are slightly stiff and yellowed by acid. There are no dog-ears or notes that suggest anyone has read this before you. It is a sad-looking publication.
Thunder rolls affectionately in the warm summer rain. The church is empty and its bell is silent. The boys have long since gone home. The spire juts upward.
Lovers roll off each other, sweaty and happy, their worries alleviated. They hold each other close and never feel alone. Rain patters audibly on the glass.
A wild cat sulks outside.
The man in the crater is about to be drowned in mud. The rain falls all around him and has long since extinguished the small brushfires ignited by his landing. The walls of his crater are sliding inward, weighted down with moisture. A small pond has already begun to grow inside the caldera, still low enough to reveal the man's face but little else and if he does not move soon, he will surely die.
He feels this might be a good thing.
A fragment of looseleaf falls free as you page through the pages one last time. The following is written in looping, girlish script:
Inevitably, we are distracted from reality. It is easy to forget the world exists outside our field of vision and we often enjoy this, mistakenly assuming that the world is an enormous and terrible place when, really, there is nothing innately terrible about its enormity or infinity at all. This is something we pick up from religion. God is all-powerful and all-seeing but also awesome and terrible. Those words, specifically, seem to be paired often in the texts they serve you in religious schools. You cannot comprehend God. If you did, you would turn to salt. Knowledge killed Paradise. No tower will ever reach His heights. Thus the infinite is assigned a taboo. The requirement that we
The fragment ends there, concluding in a jagged fringe of torn paper.