Your head is empty. Every thought you think echoes boundlessly into a chasm. Your eyes glaze over. Blinking, you refocus. Scanning, scattered. You cannot stay.

Bright lights confound you. Voices abound. You have not moved in some time. You stand only to sit again. You are speaking in fragments.

You are mindless, ritualistic, a captain asleep at the helm. There is a dull roar between your ears. A ship grinding into an iceberg.

You are not of your body. You hate this alien body. Pink and feeble, and immobile. Pinpricks scratch your skull. Your hands are cold, clenched, catatonic.

Shuddering, you




Rip yourself from the wormhole’s edge and descend back to earth. Breathe life back into your veins. Press your soul back into your body.

One clap, two clap, three clap, forty?

By clapping more or less, you can signal to us which stories really stand out.