Time. It loses all meaning without place. Fog, a heavy mist that reduces visibility. What can I do when I know that I have vision, but can see nothing but this fog. It chokes my eyes, and leaves my lungs clear. I’ve been walking so long, I don’t remember what ground feels like, or if I’m even walking on it anymore. I can’t see it, so it’s possible it left without hesitation, or perhaps I left it. That would make more sense, to place the blame on myself. I was interacting with forces I should not have been.

I recall clearly leaving the misty waters through the fog, and into the port of a city that appears on no maps. The fog was to be left behind, seeing clear visions of barren streets. But it followed me as I stepped further into the unknown pathways, crowding me. Distorting my thoughts and visions. I breathe deeply, and exhale onto my hand, seeing it for the first time in… ages? I haven’t hit into anything, but I have never veered off course. A straight line. If one never does anything unexpected, then one can only find what they are looking for, unless, of course, it is not there, and never was. I can overcome what is internal. I always have, set out to new lands. Plot a course from point A to point B to point C. It never ended, but it also never ended in something new. It was the same everywhere. Which is how I find myself here.

I make a sharp turn to the left, and fall, fall forever. There is no time any longer, and the fog clears. Sadly, it only reveals horrors. Or, as it were, blessings in disguise. I turn, and I can see the fog not so far above me. I’m no longer falling or moving, it was an illusion. I am in place, but the wind is flying above me. Shadows of creatures and visions I cannot see, except out of the corner of my sight; we exist not on the same plane. I, however, now feel between my earthen, controlled realm, and this extra-terrestrial dimension. I can feel powers beyond my control, from beasts I cannot comprehend without succumbing to insanity.

Constellations I have never learned, never read of or dreamed about scream around me to be of themselves. But they are not. They are foreign to me, but exist in and of dimensional rifts. Only to be seen by the others that surround me. I fear I will be free of my interspatial prison, for the jailers only are interested in my insofar as death. Stealing and eating my life force. Then, my body will plummet back to Earth, beaten, torn asunder. They will find me, freshly dead, missing for an innumerable period of time. But I was not sent here. I arrived, I traveled of my own accord. This is somehow my doing, and I will master this horrible nowhere zone. I will, one day. I can feel it. Years are but a breath to me. I believe in myself; and although I feel my life was never what it should have been, it is now amongst true horrors that I dwell. I have a soul, and that places me above these indescribable bursts of gods of cosmic indifference.

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