"In frustration of the magic of her femininity, she knew that by no conjuring whatsoever could she permeate the shell into the inner nucleus of what made Dr Hinde the thing he was: maybe it was something old and dark and so far away from her, or maybe it was something the world had trained into him in the intervening hours; part of her suspected she had maybe even been there without realizing, and contributed, like laying pavers on the road to certain crucifixion, and all the while, not even caring to check at her fingernails or even fix her hair, but somehow running brightly through, only to realize the bitter certainty of her solemn frustration in a quiet hour of the future."
-from Time After Time, a now lost fragment of fiction written around a housefire and some good anti-psychotic medications.
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