a state of being timeless

“Avalon,” he said without turning, remaining old and gray instead of black and white. The Room would always be his center, another Box come to think of it. Trapped.

“Yeah,” ditzy blonde Marilyn says back to him, still cleaning that glass, almost wearing it out like with sandpaper now. She should think of another task to perform. She’s stuck as if in a rut. But at least her mouth, her *mind* is still working forward. As well as backwards. “Some say Our Second Lyfe started here — in Dex — instead of Babylon.”

“Whore of Babylon,” he responded. “There *is* no Whore of Babylon.” He should know since he was there. “It’s all… make-believe.” He said it with disgust, she thought. He’s bitter about something else. A hidden truth. He could have done the deed as well as young Travis, she gleaned. If circumstances were different. She turned.

He assumed the position of a man, she a woman.

“You know, I had a sister once,” he started his confession on that late April day on the 4th of July.

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