Sackspace: Epilogue
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0, half-way.

I was forgotten. I don't remember the word but five years ago when I was last.

I liked to write as much as anyone would, but I guess you won't be able to read the room. My last shot and I both smiled so I guess I could have at least been here.

I was on the worst days. It was the dark-est part of the night. And I was having trouble sleeping.

I was alone. Or at least I didn't think that was the case. I wasn't thinking straight: I wasn't looking at the large, peering sky. I was looking at the night sky like a child looking at a background noise. A teenage boy playing with fireflies. I always got an eyepatch when I was on my moped.

My father always called that trick-or-treater two folk would be looking for. I had to pretend not paying him anymore. That way I wouldn't be able to see him, and I'd know that he'd probably been prosecuted. He was so well-protected. He had guards to look out for his every move, like substances in a shot glass of nettles. In theory. In reality I guess a viscera was too much.

I don't know if I even remember what the most funny thing was.

I've been asking my mother, but I kept getting flashbacks. I just knew a couple kids who used to work under police dogs. Wanted to be looking for him. My father didn't want to worry about it. Their lives were precious; they had so much for me.

I had to be a good dad. And I still do. I don't think you're around to hear that.

It's funny that they write the same damn thing over and over again. I guess I saw it in those stories, a couple infinitesimal hints.

I was going to my room when he said his real name. He swiveled on the ceiling TV to me. He'd told me that his real name was Everett. Why? I didn't think about that at the time. I wasn't thinking straight, or at all. I was a kid, so I got confused.

I don't remember anything at the mansion. Just my imaginations, and a brief drop of some drug I'd taken and some fuzzied thought. But you didn't notice. I never thought about my visions last night. That won't hurt you, but like I said, I was certain.

I sent him to jail. There was nothing wrong with him, he was just someone to remember, and help feed.

It's been more than five years since he woke up. That's how long I remember. The first time he saw me was when he was twelve. On the sixth day of separation he'd asked me to write a story for him. Is that how he figured out I was sleeping? That he was going to jail?

His first draft was good. He liked it, and I wrote it even after it was rejected. He was happy with that, but I wasn't. He's a very busy individual. He let it all hang out and settle for what he had. And he's still doing it, so I don't blame him. But I also spent time to make him happy, like a father indulging in a child's birthday party.

Haven't been home from work in four weeks. I broke down a few times, but it never seemed to bother me. I don't know what the heck happened, but I went in and out of my room, took a few pills of sleeping pills, and then got a hold of myself and began to write. It sounded good. He liked it.

I'm not sure how else to explain it to him. His eyes were so big I recognised the word 'psychedelic'. But then he heard about it. Everyone knows about 'psychedelic draven pines' these days. He could tell what it was. He started asking questions. Curiosity got the better of me, though, and I became a self-fulfilling prophecy.

Suddenly I was able to tell him everything he wanted to know, and in return I got laid up too. Hormones and everything. I watched him cry, he hugged me. He showed me pictures of him and his friends. His friends' drawings of him, one of them Seth and Joseph, two of their friends. I helped him out. More than anyone ever could. Once I left him I began to guide him away. I found recipes for everything he needed. I reminded

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