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Chap 7.7 - Page 7frangles: Skip book 1: Writer's Bricks

               It was the last page of the book, and no other, Skip decided, that ignites the catharsis of relief awaited from the first: quenched anticipation for the ending, or a soothed itchy rash for just the nutshell bottom line; or the end of a sentence of suffering a story you only picked up at Starbooks to impress some chick who didn't even give you her #!@$#!& phone number.
                Only when the writer says, "This is what my book was about and why we went through all that" does the whole mush of slop crystalize in full fractal symmetry, each page in intrinsic harmony with every other, the point of each igniting all others like hundreds of physical atoms of gasoline that didn't quite know what they were supposed to do until until a philosopher thought up fire and lit a match.  The last page of the book presents the prize of a hand-held prose satelite navigation device, with which one can freely zip and beam here or there throughout its now mapped and familiar pages.  Whether a relief that a miserably boring bad book is over, or the satisfaction of a wonderous adventure drawing to its anticipated conclusion, the last page of the book is always, always, worth the wait.
                ...Unless it's read first.

    ...Or is unfinished.

    ...Or if you're the author of the wretched thing.

    Or, of course, if any type of amnesia whatsover was involved in any stage of its conception, writing, reading, rejection, revision, re-rejection, publication, posting, or burning after the realization that the last page is just not worth the wait after all.


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