From old pieces of paper and the backs of napkins
As the panic spread, so did the smoke. When reality itself tears, turns out there are great gouts of acrid smoke to go along with that feeling of “holy shit what is that?” It’s visible for miles. Unless it’s foggy. Or raining. At night you can see it from even farther off as the edges of the tear burn sodium-bright through the smoke. The flashing is like a string of Satan’s own firecrackers tossed into the street. The tears burn, so we call them smoke.
What they are are rifts.
They are doors.
Day 37 (unsure)
I had the dream again. That’s not right, a dream means sleep, and I don’t know…
Maybe not a dream then, but other words are scarier, so I’ll say “dream”. Hallucination sounds so – irrevocable.
Three birds screech, constantly. At each other, at me, at nothing. The only time they’re silent, well, less noisy, is when they feed. They’re ravenous, seeking always anything to devour – so long as it means taking it from someone else. I’ve watched them turn away from offering made to appease them only to turn on one another all teeth and noise and fury.
I wake up with scratches, still with the alcohol on my breath that is my only means of escape. Am I dreaming then? Are these things happening? Please, it can’t be real, can’t…?
What if they are? What if the sun and blue sky and warm water are the dreams? What if days spent hauling lines until my hands are raw are my life and swimming with sea turtles and warming myself on the sand are my mind trying to keep me sane? I don’t know. I don’t want to know. The sun is coming up and lighting the clouds glorious shades of Heaven and whether I’m waking to it or lapsing from sanity I prefer this to the other.