It begins with the silence. A deep, absorbent quiet that swallows thought itself. The air is textured, a fine grain like the soft hiss of a forgotten tape, playing on a silent, endless loop. Everything is washed in the colors of a fading dream—a tired pastel pink, the jaundiced yellow of old paper, a sky blue bleached by a sun that is not here. This is the threshold. A place between places.
A ...
