Paraluman/The Muse’s World
“Yes,” said the Muse. “Here I am dying a thousand deaths as stories languish. I bleed onto imagination’s floor, lose my heart to stories that are never finished, befriend characters who are cut and wonder what would have happened had those stories a proper end.”
He trailed his fingers through the disappearing fountain, filled his eyes with a fading sun, waggled his toes in disintegrating grass as bit by bit, the setting fell apart. Inhabiting a world that rearranged itself with a thought, one that redrew each time inspiration hit, made his footing treacherous at best. He never knew when the ground would vanish under his feet and leave him falling, cartwheeling, like a mote in the writer’s eye.
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