I dropped into the silence, into nothing thick as tar,
And there a figure waited on a throne that wasn’t there.
I stepped toward the shadow, hoping it could tell me where I’d gone—
It turned its face toward mine, and every boundary came undone.
My eyes.
My scars.
My crooked grin.
A mirrored ghost in borrowed skin.
Two versions drifting helpless under cold electric stars—
Just me… and me… and all our unspoken wars.
We argued on a razor’s edge where sound could never reach.
I swore the world was spinning—some vast, unseen machine.
But Other-Me just pointed to the darkness without end:
“That horizon doesn’t bend. There’s only straight. There’s only end.”
He whispered that the edge was close, that truth was always thin,
And something in his smile said he had already fallen in.
I tried to check the time, but all the hours liquefied—
Melting down my fingers as a stranger’s memory climbed inside.
Then space began to peel apart—floor to ceiling, bone to breath—
Revealing what was buried in the architecture of death.
A 360-degree distortion stretching out from where I stood,
Showing veins within the rafters, showing rot beneath the wood.
I saw the drain beneath the tiles, the lock behind the door,
The things that hide in pockets, and the ghosts beneath the floor.
The present split in fragments; the past cried through the seams.
The future flickered open like a wound inside a dream.
I remembered then tomorrow.
I forgot the day before.
Round world.
Flat world.
Shapes that meant nothing anymore.
I watched his certainty dissolve; I felt a blade slip through my calm—
Then suddenly the ground cracked open in a flawless, perfect line.
The curve collapsed like paper. The illusion folded thin.
Other-Me said softly, “See? This is where the truths begin.”
“No spinning. No orbit. No sky to ever flee.
Just one eternal chamber. Just this room. Just you and me.”
And when the morning woke me, ripping me back into my bed,
The dream clung to my ribs like something living, something fed.
A whisper from the darkness crawled behind my waking mind—
A warning shaped like memory, sharp and undefined.
Not all truths are given.
Not all lies are told.
And some horizons stay too straight
To fit the stories we were sold.
