If this was a real story, I would have an enemy. A relentless oppressor who tries to pin me down to one version of Blue Skunk, one version of Blue Skunk's Dream Shack. A fanatic who rants in the distance, "Stay in your world, you! You!" Sometimes I hear him, very faintly.
I open my eyes. The spaces between the worlds are punctuated by deep canyons filled to the brim with bones. Skulls, bits of toes and fingers, row upon row of rib cages, each imprisoning some lost part of me. You would not think that one person shed so many parts of him and still be here, but that how it is. I died more than a thousand deaths, but most people can see only one of them.
I close my eyes. I feel the gnarled bark of a tree that is more ancient than most countries. It towers to the heavens, perhaps because the gods loved its presence. "May I climb you?" I ask. "I allow only birds," the tree replied. I reached into my soul until I found a room filled with feathery down and wings. This would have to do. "Fine," I whispered to the tree. "Then I would have to come to you as a bird."
I open my eyes. I am at the morning of the World, the beach where all the debris of all old places washes away. I realize that most people fear this place. They fear the wet fingers of the ocean, riffling through their yesterdays until they have none left, but I came here with nothing except these eyes that behold the glittering freshness of new waves.
I close my eyes...
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