I’m cowering in fear. “They” have kicked in. I can hear paranoid voices resonate in my bones. All of them. All of the voices in all of my bones. I have many bones. I can feel the sweat start to collect on the back of my neck. I feel sick. I hope that will pass. My eyes flinch and shunt from side to side. The walls are closing in. Or expanding outward. Or breathing. I’m not quite sure at this point. I am sure that one of the voices is John Lennon. He keeps talking about strobic dimensional frequencies and asking if I want an apple. Jesus keeps telling me I’m not wrong for being myself, but his dad is pissed. The back of my throat is rough-grade sandpaper. I don’t want to contemplate what’s upstairs. It took me three tries to write that last sentence. Time is starting to go a little…wonky. The clock seems to be stuck, rather odd for a digital. The numbers look like a face. It’s either in pain or laughing. I think “Upstairs” is wondering why I keep screaming “what’s so fucking funny?!” I don’t care. I do care. I think I have transcended something. I am elsewhere. I am in a nowhere place. John Lennon and “Some Other Thing’s Voice” are telling dirty jokes and smoking in Heaven’s restroom. My chest hurts. I look down and poke at me. I find that the world has replaced my heart and the pain is its rotation on an axis. I see a man and a woman standing at the opposing ends. North and South. I crane my neck trying to get a better view, but the man flips me off, the woman turns around and mutters something about me being a pervert. I blink. Nothing happens. I blink. Something happens. I blink. Everything happens. I twist and bend as I feel my curiosity create a space/time distortion. I’m living between seconds. I look down at the liquid mirror. I dip my hand into it. All my thoughts, memories and very being are dripping off my fingertips like molten wax. I taste me. I taste bittersweet, like heartache on the perfect summer day. I taste adrenaline and tears. The world turns faster in me. I know what I have to do. I tear the world out of me and replace it in the cosmic stew. It doesn’t look quite right. I wrench one of my eyes out to make the moon. Now I can watch creation while I dwell in it. I realize I’m still in my room. My lungs fill with a jagged gasp as I suddenly remember how to breathe. I wonder if this is kind of what Oppenheimer felt when he did all that weird occult shit at the Los Alamos test site. I wonder if he really trapped God in His own creation. I wonder what God’s up to. I wonder if I could have whittled this piece down to eight words. I’m. All. Fucked. Up. On. Big. Red. Pills. I spend the remainder of the night beating back spiders with a rolled-up magazine. They were made of pretzel with cigarette legs.