My head is
pounding, so I think I’m going to spend a delightful weekend holed up in an
anonymous New York City low-end hotel, studying this amateur manuscript I’ve
found on hollow earth theories. There
may or may not be copious amounts of booze involved – I got a lovely bottle of
chocolate-flavored vodka chilling in the freezer – and I may spend all the
money in my bank account. On that
airplane trip. To Juneau, Alaska, where
I might hire a dog sled captained by a mysterious Esquimaux woman,
mush-mush-mushing all the way up to the Aurora Borealis. And maybe – just maybe – I can use that map
the one-eyed man left behind and find the way in, to the world where only
Lindebrooks and Saknussems trod, and attain the center of the earth …
Or I might just
take a hot tub with some Epsom salts and read one of those physics books I
pulled out of a box in the basement.
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