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It was the last page of the book, and no other, Skip decided, that ignites the catharsis of relief awaited from the first: quenched anticipation for the ending, or a soothed itchy rash for just the nutshell bottom line. Or the end of a sentence of suffering a story you only picked up at Starbooks to impress some chick who didn't even give you her #!@$#!& phone number.
Only when the writer says, "This is what my book was about and why we went through all that" does the whole mush of slop crystalize in full fractal symmetry, each page in intrinsic harmony with every other, the point of each igniting all others like hundreds of physical atoms of gasoline that didn't quite know what they were supposed to do until until a philosopher thought up fire and lit a match. The last page of the book presents the prize of a hand-held prose satelite navigation device, with which one can freely zip and beam here or there in its now mapped and familiar pages.
...Unless it's read first.
Or is unfinished.
Or if you're the author of the wretched thing.
Or if any type of amnesia whatsover was involved in any area of its conception, writing, reading, publication, posting, or burning after the realization that the last page is just not worth the wait after all.
Or worse yet, if you're an author with a cascading diagnosis of an intertangling web of amnesias that would push any doctor into a shock of forgetting everything they know about the idea.
Or worst of all, if
Skip friter sighed with the usual feeling that his thoughts were a bad aftertaste of a brief couple of paragraphs that would have sufficed for a short frwoa fragment perfectly if not watered down by his ranting, run-on thoughts.
/ Skip thought about his very first moment in Flutonia at 1:11. Partly out of nostalgia, but mostly in preparation for the chance that time loops around and the moment--or one like it--was just a handful of seconds away.
/ Or worse, if you're a brain fried friter with 56 forms of chronic amnesia who can't remember anything about the book he just wrote other than a lingering feeling that a sequel would probably be too redundan t to bother with.
If Skip had remembered anything at all about his adventurous
Skip had come a long way since thinking up the known universe, which was unfortunate given that he'd completely forgotten everything since he'd done so, especially since he hadn't really created the known universe at all but simply come out of his amnesia more slowly than was healthy for the brain of any freelance novelist
"Memento," Skip thought, "My life was like Memento.
One thing Skip certainly wondered is if the fractal nonlinear medium of his future works would be possible without the deus ex machina convenient <> pogo stick of amnesia. Perhaps presenting a story that can be read in many ways to a reader through the excuse of a reader just fools them
tricks them into thinking they've forgotten what the hell they were just reading, so everything simply must make sense and i was too dense to have noticied.
of course, getting a taste
Of course, getting a taste of his own medicine, Skip now realized
Skip now stood lost as ever in the forgetful procrastinative nonlingering fragmatica oh god is that even a word any more?
Skip tried to orient himself. No matter what he'd been through, he still had at the
at least the faintest lingering a feeling of where he was, and at the most, a full blown total universal knowledge of precisely where he was and how it fit into the mysterious asdkfgj alskdfjg as;ldfkjgwdlf
It certainly wasn't the ultimate end: the absolute and total apocalyptic finalization of every thing fathomable that could possibly be finalized or brought to a conclusion (except accepting that any given moment in time served as such). It certainly wasn't the ultimte and apocalyptic beginning of everything just said, because being the latter of the two examples necesitates a former having come before it at least. Of course it could be the second asldfkjasldfj
It definitely wasn't the dead middle or pique of anything, of any story
of anything. Not the hour, not the book, not his life... It certainly wasn't that. Unless, of course, Skip's amnesia was entirely off and there were in fact ways of percieving the universe quite apart from what Skip was used to. Perhaps the idea of finality necessitates the idea of middle, and but for one dyslexic swamp, perhaps Skip was not at either beginning nor end, but rather the total dead middle of something or another.
In that case, the issue of beginning and end were now happily nullified...
Skip mentally popped a bottle of Exedrin, and stepped onto the last train of thought of the first seven hours of Skip's life as an obscure frwoa friter somewhere between a Pulitzer and the end of the page.
Two tots diverged on a yellow brick road, and sorry I could not frite them both / And be one friter, long I frote / to where they bricked in the structuregrowth. / I struggled with destiny up on the ldege (Phist)
(phish) / and gasped when defeated he slipped off the endge
"Who was Skip" Well, who is Kyle XY? Or Jason Borne? Or Joe Black? Or Carmin Sandiego? Or that doggie in the window? Or waldo? And where were the latter three for that matter?
Who is anyone? Who is 'who'? @whois <?>
Who is that guy yelling at me from outside my window down on the ground from the first floor on the sidewalk and why is he threatening to kill me if I don't "drop that !@#$ing pen and come pay for this car damage or I swear to god, Todd, you're never going to borrow my car again. And you can forget about getting layed tonight, Steph specifically told me she doesn't want to sleep with a car-wrecking thug who can't even get along with his best friend. You better not be writing that lame story with that
lame self-insertion story about you and your inability to publish a coherent manuscript again. Oh yeah, I 'm sure Ballantine will go for that one: hey, assholes, you haven't published any of my manuscripts yet, so here's a book about the cruelty you've inflicted on me via the/ and the tragedy of what it's like to be me.
That book is a Mary Sue fantasy, Todd... I bet you're still on the last page, aren't you. When the hell are you going to get off the last page and write any of the others--or pay for this car damage at least. Are you even listening to me? Get your !@#$ ass out here or I'll--
It was the last page of Skip's 7-hour story covering the strangest period of writer's block he had or would ever have. It had begun in the total chaos of full amnesia augmented exponentially by an overdue manuscript of the greatest flwoa that would ever be fritten by the end of the day, and ended with the precious total order of knowing what he and Flutonia and Okuaka were all about. there was finally no doubt as to who Skip was or what he could do <do not mention abbreviation for okuaka anywhere but the first page>
There was finally no doubt as to whao Skip was or what he could do. No boundaries on the limits of his re-honed Flutonian imagination. No block or brick could stop him; no lack of inspiration from lack of experienceing anything in the world would ever threaten him ever again. Skip finally had full and crystal clear memory of everything that had ever happened to him.
...Before he lost his short term memory at exactly 1:11 that morning.
Skip would never remember the adventures of the succeeding hour of the regaining of his memories. All he knew was that he had just now hit his head--or maybe got smooshed by a Mack truck and was hovering in that weird tripply white loading limbo of Assasin's Crred <is it limited to just assaisin's creed> on PS3.
or gotten knocked out by an overly violent bagpipe player he insulted at an open mic around Square One. He really couldn't remember. Which suggested his short term memory was also failing backwards like some nightmare Memento-saturated hell realm.
It was the last page of the....that the loathed and miserable prison sentence of its steel bar sentences and plot lines has finally come to an end. Only the last page can ripple
last page can spark the ripples of fire that torch the trees from which its pages were spawned, and cast them into the ash of faint memory as if they never were at all.
And yet, thought Skip, if a book burns in the woods and no one cares to remember, does that raise or lower its over all <market value>? Does it make it harder or easier to write the sequel? Does it destroy or solidify its place in history as a timeless and cherished classic?
Skip stepped onto the train as a free and aloft and off to anywhere worth freeing in the time between now and the end of his life as a nameless freelance frwoa friter somewhere btween then and the end of the page
.his first manuscript and the end of the page.
Perhaps he'd forgotten in order to go anywhere... <inject for dummies explanation of frangles structure preismse>
Each mot of his life was a spec of sand in IDS
WHAT SOTRY DID SKIP WRITE?
only story ever told
...Or at least, he would have learned and grown from all this as a rich, dynamic charater had nhe not been about to loose the last spec of his memory of the day's events he'd begun losing since the most memorable cliffhanger VER 3.5 hours ago that only a spoiler-free journey could possibly let one experience without runiningng it.
It had been then that his hopes of becoming a richly developed dynamic character had begun to splinter and fade. Now, at the end, he understood even the hopes his paranoia that he would reach the end of the day without a smigen of character development or aftertaste of any sort of imbeded theme or moral to hist story > foreshadowed its complete and total demise and domination over the last few hours since ithe onset of sympomts.
And yet, he knew, finally, the pain of a Flowers For Algernon frwoa tsist; he understood the evil pointlessness of Dude Where's My Car when the gay alien guys <redundant to movie> reset the universe as if the movie never even happened. He knew the pointless endings of the Buterfly Effect Directorsdlfkj and Being John Malcovich, not to mention American Beauty, /long list/, the Family Guy episode when Stewey kills Lois and we find out it was all just a simulation; or the SGU episode on the Turok planet where the kinows download Turok and kill of the cast utnil they beast the level....
"What would be the perfect line for the end of my frwoa? Where does Jimmy finally go? 'Free and off to anywhere'? ..Be0tween his strange life as a...'?
<the above ongoing as Skip faces the problem just faced writing this page>
.he only knew that
free and off to anywhere in the infinite possibilities between
a Pulitzer Prise and the end of the page.
the onset symptoms of writer's block and a Flutonian Pulitzer prize.
As Skip's long-term memories came back to him in utter totality and the short-term memory of the strange day faded completely from memory, Sip was struck with the strangest and most complex feeling he would ever feel for a long time to come:
As the final train of thought of Skip's short 7 hour existence whiffed him off to anywhere, the last lingering feeling he would ever have of the day was a magnitude and complexity the most surreal and dizzying feeling Skip had only grazed feeling until now:
Somewhere between a Pulitzer and the end of the page, Skip Friter had a feeling his soul had only scratched yet but now bloomed into a full fledge /omnibus/ that saturated every nook and cranny of his tiny freelance novelist brain:
it was the only tidbit of a subconscious memory Skip would ever retain about the events of the day as a one time frwoa friter at the dawn of time:
It was the pique of his life / As Skip stood on the high cliff overlooking all the life paths anyone could ever take, including his own, he tried to see into the future and the adventures that might await him in the great Act II of the Life of Skip. But every time he tried to look forward, a memory intruded from the past, reminding him how much he had already been through. As he looked forward to the /stuff/ below the cliff in front of him, the stuff behind him seemed to too much different. And he hadn't a clue whether that was a good thing or a bad thing, or what kind of replay value his life had / whether his life had any replay value.
Part II is always a re-hash of Part I. Every movie or book that wrapped itself up at the end before it was known whether budgets and publishing contracts would allow for another book or film, is followed with a miserable re-hash of the first. Hence Skip wondered if the rest of his life would be an everending duplicate of the first half. Did his life have any replay value?...
FOR MODULARITY, perhaps there are NO specifics given about Skip's past *
Things continue to move on based entirely one what skip is told was in his past or what he imagines after one eleven as in his past, etc, etc, i.e."Ah, yes, I've been an important frwoa writer developing my skills for quite some time." / "How do you know if you don't remember?" / that, sir, is entirely beside the ptoin.
Maybe amnesia was his amnesty from the horrors of the past.
How many times could Skip have written him out o his whole reality entirely How many times had he sensed the method--right there in reachable grasp--for leaving flutonia entirely if yhe just concentrated hard enough; if he just srote well enough asdlkjas dflgjk
- Perhaps all of existence would simply cease to exist
- Perhaps it's my neverending job as a/the /./
- What if language itself had to be reset
"Okuaka... I wonder if the word means anything."
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