Authors Ramble: Welcome to this surreal piece of prose. Hope you enjoy your stay. Any questions are to be directed to my LJ.

This is written in a very, experimental style. Any feedback would be muchly appreciated. Thank you.

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And begin

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Love me,

Need me,

Want me,

Adore me,

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Once upon a time there was a girl and she never got her happy ending. The end.

Once upon her time there was a boy and he brought a gun. He died. The end.

Once upon a time there was a girl and she got pregnant. She never finished school. The end.

Once upon a time...

There was a boy and he was beautiful. And french. He was also french. Right, once upon a time there was a boy, who was beautiful and french. And a junkie...

Once upon a time, I fell in love. He was beautiful, and french, and a junkie, and a singer, and talented, and jealous, and stupid, and mine. He was mine. And I loved him. And for a time we were happy.

But then I died. And that's when things got really interesting.

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All art is completely useless.

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"Do you love me?"

"Yes."

"Good."

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I open my eyes and all I see is darkness. I don't like darkness. Never have, never will. It just eats away at you. Sucks out your soul. Of course, he always revelled in it, his domain. He was like a vampire in that respect, he didn't like garlic either. Or catholics. Then again it could just be at night he was drunk or high or both. In the morning light he couldn't hide the track marks.

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"Do you really love me?"

"You know I do."

"Really?"

"Would I lie to you?"

"...No...?"

"Exactly."

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This time when I open my eyes the darkness is gone, but so has the curious numbness I felt before, I double over in pain.

"How are you feeling?" asks a voice.

"Like someone is jamming red hot pokers into my stomach." I snap.

"Ah... Welcome to Shangri-La" Then I black out.

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The next time I awake it's to see a wonderfully familiar face peering down at me.

"Marc!" He looks confused.

"Is that my name?" I nod. "Did you know me?" I nod. "Who am I?"

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I am elated to see him. I stand up, ready to embrace him whom I adore. When my eyes focus in on his bare arms and suddenly a horrible feeling washes over me, his arms are blemish free. This is not my beautiful, but tainted boy. This is an imposter. My emotions must show on my face for not-Marc looks rather bewildred.

"I'm sorry. I must have been mistaken." Is all I say before storming out of the room, it isn't until I reach the corridor that I realise I don't know where I am.

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"What day is it?"

"Sunday

"The holy sabbath."

A laden pause.

"Holy?"

"Holy indeed."

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"Where am I?" I implore the world, my breathing heavy.

"Shangri-La, just like I said before." I recognise the sing-song voice from my first awakening. But now I have a face to match it to. A pretty woman somewhere in her early twenties, black hair, black eyes, black makeup.

"And where's that?" I ask, no patience for her games.

"Everywhere and nowhere. That is where Shangri-La is." I furrow my eyebrows, she isn't making any sense.

"You arn't making any sense." She laughs, a tinkling noise like windchimes, though I'm sure no windchimes are quite that sinister.

"You're dead." And then everything made sense.

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Never smile at a crocodile,

Oh you can't get friendly with a crocodile,

Don't be taken in,

By his welcome grin,

He's imagining how well you fit beneath his skin,

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"So I'm dead." She nods.

"I'm dead." She nods. "As in no longer living." She nods.

"I see..." a pause.

"Then why am I still here?!?"

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A balcony. A scream. Some blood. A body. a scream. A knife. Some blood. A body. No scream.

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She doesn't answer me. Not-Marc chooses this moment to appear from the room I'd been previously entombed in. I take this opputnuity to study him.

He looks just like my Marc, same long black hair, same luminous brown eyes, same pouting pink lips, same ability to turn me into a pile of gloop. There were differences though, no track marks on his arms, no cris-cross scars on his wrists and I was willing to bet money no angel wings tatooed on his back. No trace of the crucifix he couldn't bring himself to part with either.

Not-Marc shifts uncomfortably under my gaze.

"Hey... Mister..?" He adresses me cautiously, warily. No, this is not my headstrong, fiery, stubborn mule of a lover. No it was not.

"You're not my Marc." I hiss angrily, before stalking off into the depths of this place known as Shangri-la.

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There's no such things as 'good' and 'evil'. There never was.

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Soon I find myself incredibly lost in the twists and turns of this horrible place. Horrible, horrible, horrible place for which I seem to have developed an irrational hatred. Stupid place. With nowhere to go and nowhere to come from I sit down and ponder the death I can't remember and the lover I can't forget.

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A balcony.

A scream.

Some blood.

A body.

a scream.

A knife.

Some blood.

A body.

No scream.

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I shoot upwards in a flurry of limbs and cold sweat. How had I died? Why couldn't I remember anything after a certain point? Why was I here? And where was the real Marc? Too many questions and not enough answers. I settle myself on the floor and sleep.

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I miss him.

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There is no black or white. Only shades of grey.

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I remember the day I met him. A mutual friend introduced us. I was immediately taken with his charm, and his looks perhaps. We talked for hours and when he left I found myself thinking about him non-stop.

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And so began by turns the best and the worst period of my life.

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I am awoken yet agin to a diferent voice and a different figure. "What are you doing down there?"

I look up wearily. "Wallowing, I suppose." The figure, another young and beautiful person, nodded sagely and sat beside me.

"May I join you?" I nod, to tired to do anything else, thnough if I'm entirely truthful I didn't really begrudge her her company. "My names Lilly by the way."

"A pleasure. I'm Damien."

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More authors ramblings: Well, I must say I'm amazed you got so far! Well done. There is more to come soon I'm sure. So stick around by all means. And go check the update LJ. It's been dead for a little while bt I'm back now!

**Vespa**



Credit where credit is due:

All art is completely useless. - The late great Oscar Wilde (The Picture of Dorian Gray)