I live in a world of a billion people and only me. Fractals of books and blockbusters brought together in a symphony. Mine sounds like death, dogs and the apocalypse.

There was a supermoon the night I realized I could fly. I was yanked from a Roman field to skim over treetops, watching as a hamlet appeared below. I thought I would fall, so I kept bringing myself back to earth, but each time the wind would pull me up once more, leaving my feet flailing in a macabre tap dance.

And yet, I thought, I must come here. I must come back here. The spring has gone and vastness has settled in its’ space. I cannot understand. A river of words exists where there used to be water, but I can’t spill them fast enough.

When I open my eyes, the world is now, but the chiming bell from the Hamlet church still rings in my eardrums. Everything splits and you’re a billion atoms of pine, a million of lake water, a thousand of mammoth. And all the rest.

If I close my eyes there is only space and words. Words and space. I wonder what’s to be found if I let all my molecules splinter into the ether. I stay for the dogs, but some echo is calling me back and all my atoms ache to go.

I don’t need drugs to get high. There’s enough spirit in my molecules to take me beyond the realms of matter. I read that imagination is a warehouse run by liars and poets, but they forget to mention the astronauts and psychonauts floating in the rafters.

I didn’t know I was high all the time till I tried it. Then it snapped the faint tethers that I had on reality as we know it. Am I in full color or half? What is everybody else? And does anyone know of anything that can make my imagination stop for just a little while?