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Fresh moonlight spilled down the wooded slope. In places it seemed he could scoop it up, make a moonball, suck it. In that wet light, in all that spiced stillness, only he moved. A mat of moist thatch propelled him, now into a meadow, where white grasses lapped against the dark forest. He shivered with next.
She saw him approaching. Hair lay pasted to her face in long black strands. She rose and hailed him.
"Tobe!"
He stopped, stunned... by name, by language. He had a name. He had forgotten that, been unstuck. The name brought a rush of.... There were words, words which formed a world, a time, a being. A funnel.
He looked up. The moon was only a moon. And the female, the shattered bus, the scattered bodies, all only. Less than only. All there would be.
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