My mistake was letting you write me into the script. The very moment you did that the clock began
ticking. With each new word, with every
passing sentence I fell further and further into the past, and should a simple
mistake be made I’d become a crumple.
I’d be flung towards the waste bin and knowing my luck, ricochet off the
rim and spend the remainder of my days laying on the carpet, just out of sight
beneath the desk.
And who’s to say I’m not already there? I have no memory of the story after I made my
entrance. It could very well be that I was the mistake. For all I know
I’m already laying in the shadows, where neither light of day nor reach of
vacuum can find me.
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