I once inhabited the future, to the extent that returning to the present felt like a flashback.

I would come to, and find complex tasks done, mileage accomplished.

I was second-perfect, finances immaculate, everything was where I needed it.

My hand on the handle, at the required time.

I had no idea how it happened.

A pseudo-false awakening.

I was grateful to the guy in the past who’d apparently got me here.

It seemed he’d accomplished a shit ton of other stuff I didn’t care about.

It was just to keep the world happy.

I have, I am…a predecessor.

Pilot lights stay on, in a partitioned mind.

And maybe you’re not a mass of contradictions.

Maybe you’re just different people, with what only feels like a whole other life history to explain.

With one possible biography of temporary personality trait aggregates to choose.

I sometimes think ghosts could plausibly be people from the present not the past.

Is it possible that my drifting mind has a presence somewhere out there?

A paradox of agoraphobia. No wonder they talk about angels.

I resurface in a hotel pool.

It’s full of effectively dead people, and a little bastard called Henry.

Time for a change of scene.


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