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>> Mathison Mauswick Jr. always secretly dreamed of fame. More subdued, perhaps, than the narcissistic

 

ego-greed of someone patently ridiculous like Lord Mudpant, it was always dormant nonetheless—a

 

persistent longing for that which could only be found outside the self, with its too-many corners, manifolds,

 

shadowshot furrows.              A talented grimer, out here in the Scorch, can still find some semblance of

 

fame, that for which I have no desire.              But at times a wheedling voice comes to haunt me in the dark

 

slate of my skull: the fear my name will die in a blender of oblivion with neither dent nor din…      That I have

 

been marked unremarkable—an obscure footnote relegated to the afterpages of some book that no one

 

even bothered to write…     Will ever bother to write...       That I am a minor comet, whistling futily through

 

history’s nameless aether…     I remain haunted, in other words, by the irrepressible suspicion that I deserve

 

all the evils this decadent, red world has wrought and that I am, when all the crucial figures get carried 

 

over, remainders landing with thudding finality, exactly as ugly and invisible as I feel. <<

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