And I loved the way they looked, all those journals lined up on a single bookshelf in my room, carving a path through time that you could follow, like a trail of bread crumbs, from that first day in Dr. Milton’s office right up to the present. It was as if I’d archived myself inside them—my own private horcruxes.

All parameters had returned to or were trending back to baseline by 4 hours after reoxia.

To what extent is a discourse purely single-voiced and without any objectal character, possible in literature?

an unproduced teleplay