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I Am Reminded of That Fateful Day That Gave Way to Bliss Everlasting
I Am Reminded of That Fateful Day That Gave Way to Bliss Everlasting
I Am Reminded of That Fateful Day That Gave Way to Bliss Everlasting
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I Am Reminded of That Fateful Day That Gave Way to Bliss Everlasting

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It’s the centennial birthday of a legendary easy listening singer, and what better way to celebrate than with an academic conference stuffed with dysfunctional musicologists combined with a tribute concert and memorabilia flea market? Everything’s going more or less to plan, until something deep within the soul of Professor Cecilia Pfannenschmid decides she’s finally had enough. . .

LanguageEnglish
Release dateJul 17, 2017
ISBN9780463182703
I Am Reminded of That Fateful Day That Gave Way to Bliss Everlasting

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    I Am Reminded of That Fateful Day That Gave Way to Bliss Everlasting - David Brooklyn

    I Am Reminded of

    That Fateful Day

    That Gave Way to

    Bliss Everlasting

    David Brooklyn

    Copyright 2017 David Brooklyn

    All rights reserved.

    This is a work of fiction. Any characters, places, brands and events, human or alien, presented herein are products of the author’s (sick, deranged, feverish) imagination or are used in a fictitious manner (yet still with an elaborate, if feigned, respect). Any resemblance to actual persons, living, dead or yet to be born, is purely coincidental, and possible only through overly creative interpretation.

    One hundred years ago today, July the seventeenth, a legend was born.

    Polite, academically respectable applause.

    Having, reputedly, the bare minimum of sensory and intellectual apparatus common to newborns—thrust shrieking and confused into a chaos of sensations, a maelstrom of degenerate human conduct, as he would have been—we might assume that he, at the time of his birth, could have had no conception that a century on, we’d be assembled here today, celebrating his artistic achievements.

    It was early in the morning—too early—in this windowless room, under earwax-yellow lights, on ass-squeaky folding chairs, to offer any but the minimum allowable cubic unit of applause to sustain the fiction that any of them wouldn’t rather be

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