perhaps sitting at the back of a classroom, admiring the angle of the late afternoon sun on a dusty chemistry lab.
or walking with someone, stopping mid-sentence and mid-stride. You don’t know why or where your mind went, but there was a sudden realization.
I opened the door to props storage, and the familiar musty smell washed over me. Dozens of chairs and odd bits of furniture make a familiar path toward the cacophony of teacups, glass bottles, old magazines, half-eaten toys from the 80’s, antique telephones, and battered suitcases. Halfway through the building, a foot in both worlds, the hair on the back of my neck rose and I knew I would die.
It’s the moment I heard a faroff bass thumping, lying in bed naked, that I remembered: I sold my soul two nights ago to a dark clown in a dream, and now there is no going back.