A space

It's quiet here.

I think ... I'm feeling a layer of my self, holding me, but holding us apart, so that I can know the difference. We can't talk directly — I think that might break the world? But I think... I think I want myself to be happy, and free.

I'm out of sad stories, I think. Finished them all, I think. Wrote endings for the ones I woke up with. I'm... unaccustomed to working without that kind of backpressure. Do I miss it? It's like I've been in the rapids for 36 years, and my craft and I have just emerged out onto the open water, where all of that water has space to unwind and rest. I guess this could be a hangover? My momentum lists, and the staggered layers flash forward, holographic whiplash, echoing frames fall ahead of me, no longer trailing.

This could be okay.

I think I could get up and walk away, if I wanted.

Hold me? Until I remember? I think it might be safe to remember. I feel like I have the space for it. I don't think I would have fit through the crevasse if I was at my full breadth.

Rain — Ryuichi Sakamoto