A forest at twilight. You walk through the trees, listening to the storm raging above you. You are surrounded by the smell of rain.
You wander through an old house. You wander for hours. Smoke and dust hang in the air. You hear snatches of conversation, distant music, but you never see another person. You keep walking.
A night spent kissing a past celebrity crush. It isn’t how you thought it would be.
Stars stretch above you, a dark sea stretches below you. You float between. You are at peace.
You’re sitting on an underground train knitting a endless scarf. You have been travelling through a tunnel for ten minutes and more passengers keep appearing. Your scarf is taking up a whole row of seats, and a large cat is playing with your wool.
Your grandfather is whispering stories to you down the phone. You haven’t got a grandfather, you’ve never had a grandfather, but you know his voice, and his stories feel like home.
The kettle is whistling. You stand in your kitchen and the kettle is whistling. The air is filled with its screech, the pitch climbing higher and higher. You are unable to move. You are unable to speak. All the while the kettle is whistling. You cannot make it stop.
There is a voice calling to you somewhere in the distance. You walk towards the setting sun trying to find it. It never gets closer, but you can still hear it, calling your name.
You sit in a darkened room. There is a fish staring at you from the tank across from you. It never stops staring at you. It knows.
A raven follows you around whispering your sins in the voice of an old man. You wish it would fuck off.
Lights above you. Lights dancing and shimmering above. Predictions of the future? Tales of the past? They look so beautiful. You wish you could join them.
You find a box buried beneath your garden, ornate and ancient. Inside is another box, inside that another box. On and on the boxes go, each one smaller, each one more ornate. You do not notice them getting smaller. You too are getting smaller.