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surreal narratives from the space between waking
You are standing in a field of grass that sings when the wind blows. You're in the space between waking and sleeping.
There is a child carrying a lantern that casts no shadows. They look at you as if they've been waiting, though not impatiently. Time works differently here. They gesture toward a thread that connects two impossible places.
"This belongs to you," they say, or perhaps they don't say it—perhaps you simply understand. "It always has."
The distance between things becomes a choice rather than a fact.
Reality folds like origami, and you're inside a new shape.
Now you find yourself in a city made entirely of forgotten names. The a child carrying a lantern that casts no shadows is here too, or perhaps they never left. In dreams, presence is not about location.
You realize you are still holding a thread that connects two impossible places. It feels right in your hands—the exact weight of something important, the precise temperature of truth.
The a child carrying a lantern that casts no shadows smiles—or maybe the light changes in a way that means the same thing.
Home isn't a place; it's a pattern of light you carry inside
You open your eyes—
But did you?