Ether-soaked and lost among the trees, Ellington drifted. Floated? Well, either way, he was among the limbs, each thought, each character, pluckable like apples.

Who were they all...and why were they among his forest? The Dame? The Detective? The Emptys. Always the Emptys. Hollow cored and rotten. Planets orbiting his dying sun.

He tugged on an apple, its face obscured by his hand...well, the bones of his hand. Skeletal.

Skellington? He giggled.

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