NINETY-NINE

Every cloud is more lofty, every raindrop more full of life, every breeze more free, when you’re here. It’s not a great loss to the world if I should meet my untimely demise, but don’t give up on yourself just yet. If you only manage to smile at something good, then, like the flapping of a butterfly’s wings, hundreds of miles away there will be a small change in happiness, a life at a fork in the road will venture to paths unknown, but good. Be that good for someone else, and you will feel lit in due time.

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NINETY-EIGHT

The snooze button is too close to the off button. So sad. Who builds these machines? Is  the Sandman himself is the inventor of the snooze button?

Mama says snoozing is a lost art, though, and lectures us to do it more often, to be alert and asleep at the same time.

She says we’re living but not quite alive. That’s how we should be all the time. I suppose she’s right. Maybe.

In other news, the clocks have stopped working again. Time is at a standstill, and so we wait, and listen, in the dark. And snooze.

NINETY-SEVEN

The heater spurred to life, clicking and clacking as though a dozen tiny creatures with long toenails tried to kick their way out of the vent. Foster held himself under the covers. The nightmare was still vivid.

He’d dreamed that he and a girl — her face already fading away — were racing to the bottom of a cave. Foster suddenly froze, and when his body fell and shattered was when he woke up.

His bedroom window was broken. A dead owl lay at the foot of his bed. Foster avoided ice cream before bed from then on.