The Holes That Make No Sense

Flick through
the inner story of me,
my tale, my
closed self, where
if you lick your
finger and
drag it over my
surface, I will
page for you

(just don’t walk away in the middle of
a chapter; the temptation to
dog-ear me will be
far too great)

and you can skim
the plot details,
and you can look
for the holes that make no sense,
and the points in time
where your willing suspension of disbelief
is most needed.
Read me through to the end,
and tell me how it goes.

About Catastrophe Jones

Wretched word-goblin with enough interests that they're not particularly awesome at any of them. Terrible self-esteem and yet prone to hilarious bouts of hubris. Full of the worst flavors of self-awareness. Owns far too many craft supplies. Will sing to you at the slightest provocation.
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