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170 pages, Paperback
First published July 22, 2025
My foot explodes.
My legs tremble inside their ghostly outlines, under the covers. The pain is pushing me out of moment-to-moment; I can’t follow it. The musical drone of voices and birdsongs keep reopening space, and screams begin and end on the black brane. Pain in my unblemished legs, the serene, momentless gaze pours out of my eyes and down my body again. Why does it ever stop?
She’s large and wide, with a huge blonde head that juts forward on a stout neck; her arms barely move at her sides as she walks. She’s wearing a buff-colored suede jacket over a green shirt and white slacks, and wipes her nose with a quick flip of her finger as she mounts the steps to the door.
Dr. Liu told me that string theorists call black holes “black branes.” A brane is where the strings begin and end. The black brane has its own horizon. It hurts. The black brane is not a point in space like a black hole. It hurts, it’s a more elaborate structure. Not just a point. Nobody’s ever seen one outside math equations.
…she thinks of time as being like a hole that everything comes out of, like the future is a hole the present comes out of and the past is a hole it goes into.