That didn’t seem very possible, but then again, this was the Nostalgia District. That sound: Maybe it was seeking him out from somewhere in his past. But who might that someone else have been? Perhaps his future Self: the very same future Self that now stands frozen in the washroom reminiscing about the past because of some unexceptional, everyday sound. And maybe at that time, his surroundings may have seemed primitive to someone else. Even the draft coming in from the window. Regardless, at a younger age-that is, in his childhood- this sort of setting would have seemed normal and everyday to Bunnu. After all, wouldn’t the perpetual absence of a modern context, eventually, defeat the purpose of evoking such a feeling? In fact, it would seem more appropriate to assume that visitors who spent enough time within the confines of this area were unwittingly apt to live in the past and become nostalgic for the modern day… or even the future. Lack of modern conveniences? The former certainly seemed less likely than the latter as it seemed doubtful that its long-time residents could continually, over the course of years, manage to be subject to a sense of nostalgia. Did it come about through the feeling that it evoked in its residents and visitors? Or was it due to a It was known to the locals as the Nostalgia District, though no one really knew how the area had gotten its name. Perhaps it had something to do with the part of town he was in. Other inns at least had indoor plumbing and electricity. Admittedly, these facilities were relatively rustic even for this area of the world. Or, maybe it was just the lack of electricity and running water that made it all seem that way. Far from civilization in a town too primitive a condition for its people to understand truly and fundamentally why and from what perspective they might be referred to as primitive. But where exactly was this anyway? He was far away from his home. It’d been years since he’d been in a place like this. Above it, penetrating the darkness of the water closet was not truly a light, but more precisely a candle. It was more like a washbasin than a sink, really. As he cocked his head, his eyes slowly rolled back to the sink in front of him. Now, he stood frozen in place, listening to a sound that usually wouldn’t otherwise capture his attention an insignificant, everyday sound that, for some reason, brought the past back to him with a renewed clarity. ![]() ![]() Yet, at the moment, his immediate concerns were of a different nature. It was only a matter of hours before Bunnu was to be imprisoned and it would take several more years before he was able to marshal the resources for his daring escape, the first in a series of which would eventually propel him to notoriety within the Republic as one of the greatest escape artists of all time. Akihito the Prophet of the Outlands………………………………………. Three Years Later (or “A Brief History of Asoka Plains”)……………. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the author. ISBN 978-7-2 Library of Congress Control Number: 2009901592 Lulu Second Edition / First Printing: December 2008 Second Revision: July 2010 Published in the United States by Lulu Ĭopyright © 2008 by Ashim Shanker All rights reserved MIGRATIONS, VOLUME I: DON'T FORGET TO BREATHE
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