A: It’s a poetry collection. A myth. A warning. A constellation. A metaphor. A curse. It depends on how many stars you’re seeing and whether you’ve been staring at them too long.
A: If it wasn’t fiction, would I really tell you?
A: Multiple voices. Some living. Some not. Some borrowed. Some bound. Sebastian Michaels compiled the fragments that resurfaced from the dunes.
A: Because The Wet Stars That Steal Your Loved Ones didn’t ring well with original readers.
A: No. Just don’t give it your name. If the words begin to bleed and random symbols become legible, maybe you should put it down for an hour.
A: Define “happy”.
A: Absolutely. Especially if you never want to hear from them again.
A: Only through static, shared nightmares, and a mutual disdain for linear storytelling.
A: Depends on where you mean. From the earth to the ends of the cosmos, the number is unimaginable. In the book, at least 5.
A: Good. You’re ready.
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