There are flashing lights and I am running. Up, up and up, but without a pad to cushion the fall. Just running: up, up and up. There isn’t any down in here. I hear echoes of hooting and whistling. The sounds slap and race across the curves of the walls. They move at speed or stand still directly in front of you; you can’t predict where they will land. And now somebody is coming. Something is definitely coming.
And so, up, up and up, past odd, grayscale sentries with glowing hands. They snatch at your passing feet, trying to grab you through the smooth of the walls and pull you into their homes, into their worlds. Theirs is like a little town that an ancient city built itself upon. Built out of guilt and greed. Their hands glow like round spirals, their sounds a constant resonance telling you that you are in no safe place.
I am upside down and running. I am running straight ahead, past the glowing spirals of hands and lives. Up, up and up. And something is coming. Where is the hatch? What is glowing? How am I moving so fast? This old world town feels nervous and desperate with its guardsmen clawing at my feet. My movement creates a driving pressure in my ears until I stop and I am still.
There is a quiet whistle, glistening as it moves across the panels. And then a figure at the end of my sightline, swaying a waltz to itself, calls –Look at what you are doing. Grab one of these hands before they grab you. I turn around and see the glowing spirals of the lost town. The pattern of their light shifts suddenly and strangely. A low howl rattles the panels and slowly the sentries emerge from the walls and begin their advance.
I turn again to face the figure. It is in front of me, dancing its waltz, looking through me as though I am not there. It beckons with its finger, -Come, and it is not me to which it speaks. I begin to run again. The figure does not stop me; it does not have to. It continues its waltz. And I continue to run.


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