I wasn’t myself. It was as if a spectre of light was controlling my every movement and guiding my every path and teeming with an inexplicable outside influence. The clump of woods out west stood bare as toothpicks, and my calloused feet felt nothing. All there was to feel was a momentary lapse of calm out in the hybrid suprasky of that otherworldly morning. The spectre drew me towards a being in the shape of a woman bending and twisting rocks as if they were balloon animals, and when it placed one in my hand, I found myself in a dark schism within a floating neon-rimmed castle of purple and black, where a haunting murmur emanated like the groan of a great forgotten god. I don’t know how long it’s been, but I live here now and it isn’t so bad.
[Artist's depiction of these events by Imogene Larkley]
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