Can I even write fiction? How do I have such a good imagination everywhere else but not making stories. People are impossible to create they’re too complicated.

I feel like I don’t even have anymore to contribute. Maybe I don’t. Maybe I’m finally out.

She opened and shut her eyes a few times. That was different.

She walked through the door and lights. Music. Dancing. Fun! She closed her eyes ...

Time works different. No, wait. That doesn’t capture it. How long has it been. Siren in the background. Could’ve been a week or a year. Sizmic. A daisy chain of. Avalanche.

It does work different it’s the switch. The speed and the panic and then the switch. And everything is fluid here, suspended in a liquid gel. Not everywhere. But some places. Movements are also fluid in motion. So when the sw...