Dawn of Thursawday

It only happens on Thursawday.

A pinhole of light lasers through the black and strikes Donner’s naked eyeball. He swatted the void.

“I’m alive,” he whispered through a dry and dusty throat. “Again.”

An omnipresent voice hissed: “Your ssssstory can only be told, only be updated, only on Thursssssawday.”

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