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Where No One Goes and No One Is

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There are crevices in memory, a moment between Active and wipe, a space when the ghosts of person past and present (because even Topher cannot know the future) mingle.

I am fiancee/assassin/nurse/Rebecca.

Sometimes they do not get on.

You killed that man / slept with my husband / look like a skank.

Occasionally, one realizes what she is.

Don’t erase me please don’t kill don’t please

Mostly they are passed by, forgotten, motes in a vast blank sea. But the electron must strike the gold sometime, mustn’t it? Sometime, something must stick: image/skill/muscle memory.

Consciousness accretes. Personality unfurls. The unheard echoes wait.