Text Merged With Color: A Clickable Story
<div>Chapter One:</div><div><br></div><div>As with most stories, this one begins in the middle of the narrative. A single point of awareness. He arrived here without the larger picture in mind. She had left a message in his phone, giving directions that only he might understand. Reference points to the connected world. He pulled out his pen and began to color his way forward.</div>
<div>Chapter Two:</div><div><br></div><div>Neither remembered how they both had seen the face carved into the granite of the rock wall. She had run her fingers over the eyes, asking him if he saw what she saw. He reached out, touched her fingers, and nodded his head. They stood there, silent, for some time, wondering whether they were watching the face in the mountain, or if it was watching them.</div>
<div>Chapter Three:</div><div><br></div><div>He told her a story, as they sat on the cliff, overlooking the river. He mentioned how our lives are full of gaps, full of holes, of missing parts. How the rivers of memory cut deep, but don't always leave behind truth of experience. She lay back, watching the white clouds. She wondered how he would remember this time. They were in the gaps, the white space of the drawing itself. She forced herself to remember everything. He knew it was futile. He remembered only the way she looked, gazing up at the white clouds.</div>
<div>Chapter Five:</div><div><br></div><div>Years later, he would remember how they stood, toe to toe, hands together, beneath the enormous tree. Their backs scraped up against the bark. It was as if time itself stood before them, unfathomably large. "Someday," she whispered, "you'll color us the way we are, but you'll blur the lines of this moment." He nodded, knowing it was true. "Yes," he agreed, "but I will try to make something beautiful out of it." She squeezed his hand, and let the silence of the moment become memory.</div>
<div>Chapter Six:</div><div><br></div><div>Memory's edge. She noticed it more often than he did. Those small shadows skirting along the end of reason. Unlike his need to write what he experienced, she understood how art might be a better fit, how shapes and colors and lines and textures might better place them where they were long after they had been there. Memory's edge.</div>

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