The tunnel spoke to me last night.
Not in words. In colors I’ve never seen.

There was a hallway made of soft bone. It pulsed. I said thank you. I don’t know why.

A man with no elbows offered me a glass of milk. I drank it and remembered three lives I haven’t lived yet.

One of them ends in Iceland.

One of them never ends.

The tunnel has rules. Don’t blink near corners. Don’t hum back at the walls. Never eat the cube-shaped birds.

I miss gravity, but I like it here.

If your teeth itch, it’s already too late.