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surreal narratives from the space between waking
You are standing in a clock tower where time flows in spirals. You're in the space between waking and sleeping.
There is a keeper of keys to doors that don't exist. They look at you as if they've been waiting, though not impatiently. Time works differently here. They gesture toward a book that rewrites itself as you read.
"This belongs to you," they say, or perhaps they don't say it—perhaps you simply understand. "It always has."
The ground becomes the sky, but you don't fall—you rise.
Suddenly, you're somewhere else entirely.
Now you find yourself in a mirror maze where each reflection is a different age of you. The a keeper of keys to doors that don't exist is here too, or perhaps they never left. In dreams, presence is not about location.
You realize you are still holding a book that rewrites itself as you read. It feels right in your hands—the exact weight of something important, the precise temperature of truth.
The a keeper of keys to doors that don't exist smiles—or maybe the light changes in a way that means the same thing.
The past is a story, and you can tell it differently
You open your eyes—
But did you?