Forever is a question you start asking when you look at the ceiling. It becomes a word you hear in the same way that people who associate sound with color might hear a flat sky-blue.



In the answerless nightlight of his grandmother's ghostly tv he has a too late static awakening. Nightly hauntings of something coming over him from outside or is it inside in speechless answers. He's condemned to a life of never meeting his eyes. People hide behind rehearsal time smiles. The real world. Sean blew hi

Forever is a question you start asking when you look at the ceiling. It becomes a word you hear in the same way that people who associate sound with color might hear a flat sky-blue.



In the answerless nightlight of his grandmother's ghostly tv he has a too late static awakening. Nightly hauntings of something coming over him from outside or is it inside in speechless answers. He's condemned to a life of never meeting his eyes. People hide behind rehearsal time smiles. The real world. Sean blew his face off and the look back is ghastly joker smile to his parents. I can't really imagine the holes in his cheeks. I wait for the film scare like in Pirates of the Caribbean and get the sad knowledge of granted actions forbidden to him. No answers, no bridges and too late. Before the "accident" and the is it inside or outside savior of his mind. Slide back to before. Saving is a crawl and inexplicable happiness welling up. I feel like the saving is the same feeling as when he was dying. The happiness is as the great unknown any why could be.



I have had this feeling that crawling out of the hole you dig for yourself is too hard to not stop before you're all the way out. I call it "wanting to feel like the real me" with a back burn I can't shake off that another reason exists of feeling close to the whys. Why would you do that terrible self destructive thing? I don't know. I couldn't tell you. No meeting of eyes. The real you does the savior thing that just means you didn't feel any of it was worth it. I think Sean would say something amazing about not turning to the path to get the hell out. Stay around and find out what all of the shadows on the wall look like. What could you scare yourself into thinking they look like when the lights are going out. The real world doors of insurance papers and (thank god) waking up to not being welcome at home anymore. So he lives through the obliteration of old Sean. He can't exist ever again. He's buried in stone cold I wish it had never happened and I can't imagine that it never did grief. He would have to kill who he is now to do it. Why did he try to do it before? He doesn't know and I believe him. The in-between Sean has to do the reality. So he invents his first game the Trace Italian. One of those mysterious fantasy magazine write-in ads you might glance at. Maybe like a fantasy cover of a book you never get around to reading but you are reminded of it. If you ever tried to recreate a favorite story and probably badly ripped something off but you could trick yourself into a fever of your creation. I did that forever. I'll like the stupidest stuff if it reminds me of the crap I sustained myself with because I get that feeling back. When Sean says that the Trace Italian is where people like him could be safe I felt included. I wanted to write in and make choose your adventure moves and wait for the mail to get the next turn. The kind of heroism you can only believe in by your own grace. The kind you can't promise yourself you'll have. I didn't wonder that someday, maybe now, no one plays Trace Italian anymore. The real world returns and another way to pay the bills will have to be found. These were his only sort of graced friends, these players. Two kids have their power from invisible sources. Her parents blame Sean and Trace Italian. The game made them take it too seriously. It was proof in their paths. What made them not know that Kansas nights can be so cold? In his letter read to Carrie's parents in trial Sean cannot leave out that their move was the correct one. Their pull in his ghosts is undeniable in another player, Chris, who quits on his own terms. I wanted to stay where he was when he gave up not being able to sleep at night because he could see the bodies in the trace. Sean could see their moves. Whenever he's back then or now, whichever is which of the real world or letting go. I cannot help wanting both. To be the Sean that had to have the Trace, a companion he calls Marco and grafted out of those magic where did they come from impressions. It's all true. They cannot come from just you and it's a horrifying feeling of being both alone and never alone to know it. Of course no one could have made Sean make a monster out of himself. There may as well be a time lock like out of Doctor Who. You can't return to when you did it and know yourself. What he can do is make wordless soul movements that stop before they can end when those kids could have made him their unexplainable. It felt so real me in the before, the since, the after and the yawning future the way it traces that is it you or is it the world where does it come from. This book is so perfect I can't stand it. I wish that I was still reading Wolf in White Van. I could see in my mind's eye that I can't always get out of the way leaning on it in dark impulses. Warm ones, too. I kind of wish that I was all of them and I'd be able to step outside and reach the future and the end.



I thought about the guy in the truck, the focus in his expression, and I felt like I already knew enough of the story to tell it to somebody else maybe better than either of its major players could.

