burn a smallish wad of salvia divinorum, pull it all in one long slow draughty tube, lie down and close your eyes, peek behind the curtain, lift the scenery and look beneath.
the flow of all possible lives diverges from you every moment. your nearby selves are not necessarily so similar, and you must start to wonder if you converge more often than you'd thought. these are the people whose lives you dream, and they dream yours.
lean on a wall lost in thought, and you could be anyone. if this wandering psyche is any guide, it seems most of the mes spent this moment in hallways, speaking to someone elses. they flash by and fade like falling into black, flickering by at uncountable speed. there is no countable quanta nor anything distinguishable from not-anything.
reality trickles back in sensory givens, and their accompanied string of associations, surprising and absurd. strange life is back.
my strange life.