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surreal narratives from the space between waking
You are standing in a library where all the books are blank until you read them. You're in the space between waking and sleeping.
There is yourself from a future that may not happen. They look at you as if they've been waiting, though not impatiently. Time works differently here. They gesture toward a feather from a bird that exists only in songs.
"This belongs to you," they say, or perhaps they don't say it—perhaps you simply understand. "It always has."
Silence becomes tangible, something you can hold.
Suddenly, you're somewhere else entirely.
Now you find yourself in a museum of doors that lead to moments you almost lived. The yourself from a future that may not happen is here too, or perhaps they never left. In dreams, presence is not about location.
You realize you are still holding a feather from a bird that exists only in songs. It feels right in your hands—the exact weight of something important, the precise temperature of truth.
The yourself from a future that may not happen smiles—or maybe the light changes in a way that means the same thing.
Time is a river, and you are both the water and the shore
You open your eyes—
But did you?