Beschreibung
1997. Seattle, Washington. Three Bible college students open a door to the Other Side, to a reality behind all things visible. The key to their new vision is a tiny hallucinogenic pill, but rather than enjoying unique experiences, each enters the same white, four-doored room. They wander through a seemingly endless House, but they are not alone. They have trespassed into forbidden territory, and the basement hides a secret. They want out, but no doors or windows lead to the outside. Each must answer a question greater than himself – or be stuck forever.
In the vast House, philosophies become tangible. It guides the reader through the spiritual upheavals of the nineties. This is more than a story. It’s a study of a monumental area. It’s a spiritual trespass that roils up important questions about our reality.
Coming out soon…
...Mike was the dream come true of every novelist. He wore a kilt, yellow-sand boots, and a red-green plaid shirt. His bald head imparted a bad-ass look. You could copy and paste his persona that was so queer and flawed you didn’t need to spruce it up. He was simply too much! You had to tone him down on paper to make him believable to your readers. Most people were too commonplace to make it into a book that sold. Not him. You could wade through hundreds of pages following his crazy shit, and your attention would never wane. He was the kind of guy you wanted to read about but never meet in real life...
“Great women are made in the minds of man,” she said or whispered. Can’t remember. She would never use contraction when she spoke. Never. Her eyes drilled into a far distance. Looking through telescopes was her hallmark – right through, grazing a remoteness where no one could follow. Her thoughts surfaced on her twitching forehead – as inchoate as indecipherable. Her face was a living storyboard of muscles flexing, relaxing, squinting, and creasing. And I was the reader of infinite spaces stretching across her young skin.
...There is a constant film unreeling in my head. Random pictures, stray words, passing looks, all of you. Even the most meaningless overwhelm me and verge on being unbearable. On my walk to class, I caught my reflection in the bakery’s window. Remember, where the bread smelled like a fresh morning with a cup of coffee? My cheeks, offensively red from walking, blared at me. I never liked them, unlike you. What a loss. Heloise wrote to Abelard that a lasting bitterness was her only comfort to feast on. There is vermouth in every letter I type. “Take care!” – which is a form of bidding “Farewell!” by installments....
