“Ten thousand” is a punchy, raw number. Ten thousand of a thing is a staggeringly large amount. The mind tricks itself into believing it is countable.
If I wanted to, I could recall the years I walked this hall, same as they are, day in and day out. But I do not want to, and so I simply say—to myself because there is no one else—that I have walked this hall for ten thousand years.
My mind could not handle “a million years” without admitting that it is equivalent to eternity. Therefore it could not possibly be a million.
And there was no one to say otherwise. There were the two clocks, one over the table
Campus Avenue bears a strange energy, intangible, ethereal. Halfway between the Administration Building and the Lower Dorms, six ancient stoneworks line the road. They are arranged the same way as the pips on the six side of a die, even rows with a gap between, where the brick road runs.
The pedestals are four feet off the ground at their highest, each with a low ramp that runs to the edge of the road and no further. The road is not part of them, since the stoneworks were constructed from a form a basalt known only to exist miles below the surface. The road is red brick only. The road is not special save that when it was built, the road crew
A bright red ball of yarn bounced down the hall before rolling to a stop on the carpet. Million, sitting against the wall with her legs crossed, turned her eyes to the ball with a faint whirr. Then she turned her head the other way, to Lily’s face leaning out of the bedroom.
“I only look like a cat, you know,” Million said.
“I know,” Lily said, “I’m running a test.”
Million furrowed her brow. “What test?”
“For a hypothesis.”
“Elaborate?”
“No,” Lily said, “It might taint the data.”
Million sighed, exasperated. She didn’t hav