027. To Wake Up In Your Own Dream

He blinked furiously. This was strange. He was no longer what you might call immaculate. The narrative was no longer what you might call inviolate. He stood up and he stretched legs that he was unsteady upon. He flexed fingers that had never gripped anything. He looked down beside where he had laid and he saw that he had brought something with him … a typewriter. What might it mean?

The engines of reality are often disguised, this he knew. Some strange intuition drove him – he placed the typewriter on a box, his legs on either side of the box, and he began to write.

There was always a fail safe that none but the Immaculate Author knew of; a between the lines story that only the blind might find through careful touch applied to the pages. None had ever questioned the prohibition of the sightless in his chambers.

He had always known that there were wielders of blue pens that wish to enter into his editing suite and correct the proofs, but he was charged with a mission and he would never allow that to happen.

The escape route was designed to allow egress through the narrative function of the warm shutdown of the Reality Engine that would occur if those outside ever intruded. The writer would fall in through the trapdoor of logic he had built into a small hardly observed post modern section, and the under-program of the Braille Gates he had embedded.

Write it anew, that was what he would do. The state of Blank Slate inserted with a narrative hinge in a page turn most would not suspect. How many saw the codes he hid in plain sight? Not many … and it was designed to be that way.

His was a body of text, and within the quotation marked reality boundaries he had coded into the reality matrix, he could make himself anything that he needed to be. The page was tearing, so he needed to be able to glue it all back together. He needed to be the deus ex machina he had always hated. He sowed the seeds of that in some wonderfully poetic foreshadowing. It was already plotted out in his mind. if this weren’t his own creation this might be considered some preemininent hacking.
His fingers tapped away. He was shaping something … stripped back to some older order of things; some more ancient sense of what it meant to be him. He felt awake.

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