For some people, dreams are nebulous nothings that disappear upon awakening, never to be remembered or discussed again. I have always had very vivid dreams. As I got older, my dreams began to encompass a full cast of characters and were so detailed I started writing them down so I could turn them into stories, or simply to remember the bizarre.

Sometimes I felt as if I truly lived only while I slept.

I often cry when I wake up.

Increasingly, dreams are the one place I feel safe and happy. Apparently, I am not alone in this sentiment given the overwhelming worldwide popularity of Lifesadream. Its first iteration years ago was as a virtual reality therapy program used to treat a variety of mental illnesses. Known as DreamTherapy, it incorporated positron emission tomography along with deep transcranial magnetic stimulation and a neuroelectro converter that transformed electric signals to images for review, aiding in more effective, targeted therapy. The success rate was nearly 100%, but even now the cost remains beyond the reach of most.

Subsequently, the makers of DreamTherapy modified it for use in the rehabilitation of criminals and enemies of the state (terrorists) with a program called NeuroRehab. Except in government usage, I doubt NeuroRehab will live beyond the experimental stages given the cost (executions cost pennies and the rise of penal labor camps has diminished interest in costly rehabilitation). Even so, to date, five serial killers, 13,012 rapists and 1,469 school shooters have been reintegrated into society as fully functional members thanks to NeuroRehab.

For some reason, none of those included from the enemy of the state group have survived the transcranial magnetic stimulation. I don't know why. They're still experimenting. Of course, there are plenty of subjects for testing, so I suspect it's only a matter of time before, one way or another, domestic discord is eliminated completely.

When DreamTherapy's proprietary technology patent expired, Lifesadream, a division of Neuralink, combined the existing technologies with an implantable neuronano chip that allows everyone to live in their dreams, or, for a more reasonable price, to relive their most precious memories over and over again.

Last year they introduced the neurocable and I've been trying to participate in the program ever since. Until the neurocable, you could only live in your own mind; but with the neurocable, two can exist in the mind of one.

After months of waiting, hoping and refreshing the waitlist page ad nauseum, three weeks ago I won the Lifesadream lottery. The waitlist has had millions of names since they first went live. So far, some one million people across the globe have entered Lifesadream facilities. In order to accommodate as many people as possible domestically, the U.S. government provided, at low cost to Neuralink, thousands of expropriated libraries and university campuses that had fallen into disuse.

As soon as I got the call, I quit my job and sold our house. Yesterday morning, I signed over power of attorney and our savings to the Lifesadream Foundation. They will use the money to maintain and care for my husband and I as we live out the remainder of our lives in my mind. My dreams. As I look at my husband sitting in his favorite chair, eyes vacant, I cannot wait.

**********

"Are you comfortable, Mrs. Pickering?"

It was evening. I was laying in a soft bed in a room that was probably a professor's office back in the day. The body suit in which they'd dressed me gently massaged my limbs. My husband was in the other bed, sleeping under a white comforter. There was an IV line in his arm, the bag hanging to the left of his bed. Mine was to my right. There were armchairs as well. We were surrounded by nurses and the surgeon we'd met that morning. A machine with various monitors stood between our beds, embedded in the wall and there was a desk with a chair and a monitor near the door. The windows were high up and I could see the sky was a pretty purple that would soon fade to black.

"Yes, thank you."

"Dr. Woburn..."

"Call me Maynard..."

"Dr. Woburn will be inserting the neuronano chip through the nasal cavity. It is painless and relatively quick. We'll start with Mr. Pickering and then we'll insert yours.

"Next, we'll attach the electromagnetic coils to both of you. We will wait until you fall asleep naturally since sedatives might affect your dreams, and then we will connect the neuro cable into the ports we placed above your ears this morning.

"Do you have any questions?"

"Do we ever wake up?"

She glanced at her tablet and said, "You have the lifetime package so we will keep you under until you die of natural causes. We will use the transcranial magnetic stimulator to maintain a state of infinite REM for both you and Mr. Pickering."

"What happens to people who don't have the lifetime package?"

"It depends."

"On what?"

"The package. Some choose the End of Life package in which case we put them under and then after 24 hours, we inject them with Pentobarbital. Some, like you, choose the Lifetime package and we keep them until they pass. Some with a partner choose the Until Death Do Us Part package in which case we keep them under until one dies and then awaken the other who can then decide whether to go back under with an end of life package or go home. Depends on the desire and the available funds, of course.

"Some choose the Memory Lane package and run a series of isolated memories for a set period determined by price. At the end of that period they are awakened and go back to their lives. It's a kind of vacation for some people. It's a great stress reliever. I do it once a month."

"If he dies first, will I still dream with him?"

"That is unclear at this time, but it is possible."

"What have others said?"

"At this time, all our clients making use of the neurocable are still in a joint state of REM."

"There haven't been any deaths?"

The nurses exchanged a glance. "At this time, all our clients remain in a state of REM, either alone or with a partner."

"What happens if I die first?"

"As stated in the contract, if the dominant party predeceases the partner, the partner will be removed to our hospice facilities and kept comfortable until their passing."

"What if he dies first?"

"He will be cremated and buried with you upon your expiration."

"So, this is it. I won't see you or this room again?"

"All things being equal, no."

"Okay." I took a deep breath. "Thank you for all you are doing and will do for us. The world had gotten almost unbearable for us. For me. It was so bad I looked forward to sleeping every night as a short escape. I can't believe we can actually, truly live happily ever after now. It's a dream come true. Literally." I laughed. The nurses smiled.

"Are you ready, Mrs. Pickering?"

I looked over at my husband of 42 years.

"Yes."

**********

"Baby?"

As I slowly awakened, I felt my husband's arms around me, his body strong and warm. I opened my eyes, "Eddie?"

"Morning, baby," he said, kissing me softly. "You wouldn't believe the dream I had. I swear I was dreaming our whole life all night."

"Really?" I said, running a hand through hair that was thick, curly and brown.

"Yeah, it was wild. We had a kid, I started my own business, you taught physics for 30 years and then retired to take care of me because I got early onset Alzheimer's. It was a nightmare! I was so glad when I woke up this morning and it was all just a dream."

Looking into his eyes, I smile. "Me too, my love," I leaned up to kiss him. "Me, too."

The device hums to life, and in an instant, reality dissolves. I blink, and when my eyes open, I’m standing inside a vast, shifting landscape—a surreal world of memories, dreams, and fears woven together. Fragmented scenes from my life float in bubbles around me, like windows into the past. Each bubble is different: one glows warmly with childhood memories, while others pulse with the haunting shadows of mistakes and regrets.

Beside me is Dr. Hale, the neuroscientist who built this device. I agreed to try it because I thought confronting my innermost self might bring me closure, help me untangle what I could never understand. But now that we’re here, I feel exposed, as if every secret I’ve ever kept is about to be laid bare.

Suddenly, the path shifts, and towering doors appear, each leading to different parts of my mind: Memories, Fears, Desires, Regrets. Dr. Hale urges me to choose, and we step through a door marked Fears. Inside, it’s dark, cold, and oppressive—a maze of shadowed corridors with whispers echoing around us. I realize that to escape, we’ll have to face each door, navigate every room.

But as we walk deeper, it dawns on me—there’s no exit until I accept what I find here. Dr. Hale and I need to piece together each memory, confront each fear, and unravel every regret if we’re ever going to make it out.

It’s not just a journey into the mind—it’s a journey through everything I am. And the only way to escape is to face myself completely.

I dramatically throw open my arms. "Do you get it now" I shout as they look around in horror. "What are those" they ask tentatively pointing at the multitude of strings crisscrossing the landscape. "Oh those are my special connections. You've heard of all roads lead to Rome. This is my version, all strings reveal everything is my fault." "That... That's not possible" They stammer. "Of course it is just watch". I walk them down the path showing how my actions or lack thereof caused everything that's wrong in my vicinity. I can see them listening intently as I make my case. I think I've proven my point when they give me a strange look. "You know none of that is on you right" I shake my head at their well intentioned nonsense. Obviously they are just trying to be kind to such a screwup. I pat them sympathetically on the back as I explain once again how I'm to blame for everything wrong in the world. Eventually I'll bring them around, one day they'll understand. Neither of us are going anywhere until I do.

Chaos. Never ending background music because a song is always stuck in my head. Thoughts meander like leaves in a breeze. My brain is never turning off except to sleep. Sleep is like a fog.

An ordinary summoning, she called this. Why did we choose my mind? Because she knew it would be more interesting than hers, and she didn’t want me to know all her secrets. Right. My mind has plenty of cobwebs, oh there’s the quadratic formula! Cobwebs cloud what exactly that formula solves for, maybe something involving square roots? I can’t remember. School was so long ago. I miss it, but I could live inside my mind, call it the school of the self. Isn’t that what philosophers did? Solipsism, that’s what living exclusively in my mind would involve, only I can’t because I’m not alone in here. I have to find a way out somehow. I haven’t yet. I’m tripping on words, which have real physical properties in my mind apparently.

I’m lost, and I’ve lost Talia too. She’ll probably enjoy the forest of my brain, she likes hiking, and I too am enjoying walking through pink leaves, sunlight dappled shadows. Birds chirp, woodpeckers hollow out certain trees, nesting inside my mind. Exhaustion hits like the sun setting, and the darkness sets in. The fog settles, like I’m never going to find her again, like I’m always going to stay lost here. Still, comforting numbness returns, none of what’s outside is real in my mind, just characters, Blaine Anderson and Kurt Hummel, some people are permanent high school students, and god I miss high school, I had friends back then, though never the kind of friendships shown on TV, still, rewriting the stories is how my mind occupies itself at night, when the fog sets in and the world outside doesn’t exist. Talia calls and I consider ignoring her but instead I track the sound of her voice. In my mind, my ears work perfectly, though outside one is faulty without the hearing aid and unreliable when the hearing aid is on also.

She found the cord, the pull cord my dad almost refused to pull when my mom was giving birth to me. If we pull it, we’ll be ejected, I tell her. She’s not ready to leave my mind, and I don’t blame her. We’re in a nice spot - the cast of all the TV I watched as a child are cardboard cutouts symbolizing how I played with them in my mind, my first crush waves at Talia, who tells me I had good taste back then. I did.

In a secret alternate universe, Talia occupies a similar section of real estate, but not in the version of my mind we’re traveling through. I don’t let myself think about my friends that way. Not if they’re in relationships - they are off limits, just like professors and therapists.

As though thinking about it changed the scenery, my old therapist’s office sprouts into view. The green coach I used to sit on when I was diagnosed with PTSD, when I was told what happened to me was traumatic, that the nightmares I was suffering from were actually maybe memories. Those memories are further in the fog, so I lead Talia away from this area, far from that part of the mind. She wouldn’t want to see me like that. I didn’t want to be like that, that’s part of why I’m not in therapy anymore - it’s pointless to dwell on the past.

But the past is most of my mind’s real estate, what’s not taken up by fiction and daydreams, oh Wikipedia citations are floating through the fog, wild. Maybe we should pull that cord now? I’m worried Talia will see too much and decide I’m too much like Liam and Darby and Aviva and Kevin and so many friends that no longer occupy the title anymore decided. Traffic come, oh great Liam’s here, fat and immovable and I was so bad at being their friend, our autisms clashed in opposing ways.

I never got around to outright telling Talia what happened with Liam because it would involve my brother, and Liam made it abundantly clear nobody wants to hear about my brother. Nobody wants to hear about my brother. Nobody wants to - aaaand he’s in my mind now.

“Talia, I’m pulling the cord!” Talia nodded, the wind making hearing words impossible as I yanked the cord just as my brother’s hands began… we’re just sitting on my living room couch now. My mind was chaos, and my house appears comparatively calm. “Sorry about that.”

Oh hello. I wasn’t expecting any visitors but am always glad to have company. Welcome to my mind. This must be your first time here since you don’t look familiar. Hope your visit is enlightening. Since I’m not big on self-promotion and don’t charge admission, there’s no tour guide. But I’ll be puttering around in case you have any concerns or just want to look over my shoulder and kibitz. I will ask that you wipe your feet as I recently had the accessible portions of the floors refinished to strip off the plaque buildup.

There are a few things that need to be taken care of before you can begin. Nothing major, just some forms. You know, typical bureaucratic boilerplate releases that Legal needs to have on file for insurance reasons. Red tape, what are you going to do, right? Let me get the packet.

The first piece of paperwork is the standard NDA. This just ensures that proprietary ideas, thoughts, sights or funny quips aren’t released into the public domain prematurely. Read and initial there. Recording devices are prohibited. Initial there. Then sign and date on the bottom. And today is November 17th.

The second form simply states that you are here on your own free will. You were not coerced nor under duress. You can leave my mind at any moment. Sign and date on the bottom. I’ll need to get a thumb print next to your signature. Yes, a thumb print. Either one, doesn’t matter. It’s verifying you are who you say you are. Paper towels to wipe off the ink are on your right.

This third form is if you decide to stay for an extended period, you can do so rent-free. Yes, as long as you want. Oh, you’d be surprised at how many people come here with the intention of “just looking around” but end up hanging out for many months. Some even years. Don’t worry, with only using 10% of my brain, there is enough space to accommodate all long-term visitors. Between you and me, and I’ll deny I ever said this, Code Enforcement has never shown up, so the OSHA mandated maximum capacity rating is totally ignored. I’ll also need emergency contact information.

And here’s the last piece of paper. This is the Trigger Warning rider. It’s a generic, encompassing declaration because I don’t know what will upset people these days. Fairly straightforward. It absolves me from any civil litigation involving self-imposed, implied trauma you allegedly suffered as the result of being exposed to the inner workings of my brain or getting an answer that was contrary to what you wanted to hear. Okay, sign. And perfect.

Now about the amenities. No smoking or vaping in the facility. For your convenience, bathrooms are handicapped accessible and located throughout my mind. Restrooms were installed in response to all the people dumping on me. Part of life, I guess. Please refrain from putting feminine products in the toilets. Use the small trashcan under the vanity. The hand soaps are free of lye to prevent dermatitis. Breath mints get replaced daily.

If you come across panhandlers, don’t give them money. They’re a scam. As for those voices echoing throughout the venue, I know it’s easier said than done but ignore their negative commentary. Neither are sanctioned by my brain’s governing body and steps are being taken to remove both from the premises.

Please don’t touch the displays or rearrange anything to make it more to your liking. Remember: You break it, you buy it.

The gift shop closes at 4:00 p.m. sharp.

I’d appreciate it if you completed a short survey regarding your experience with the telepathic transportation machine developed by Dr. Jackson J. Youngblood which got you here today. This ground-breaking invention has literally opened minds. As with all modern technology, the potential for beneficial upgrades increases with input from actual users. Although I haven’t ridden in it yet, I’ve heard good things about the Youngblood Individual Knowledge Exchanging System (Y.I.K.E.S.) that people take to enter the minds of others.

Anyway, enough of this chitchat. Let’s get you started. The layout of my brain is similar to a bicycle wheel. We are in the central hub with the spokes radiating towards an outer walkway. Unlike a corn maze, there are no dead ends as every path leads back to this starting location. Please disregard the clutter scattered about. I used to do housecleaning on a regular basis. But over time, the slow accumulation compounded. After decades, my attempt at “shabby chic” now looks like an episode from Hoarders.

Each spoke has a specific theme. I’ve satiated my somewhat OCD tendencies with the spokes’ themes matching their identifying letters. Spoke A behind me focuses on Anamnesis. This starts with recent adulthood memories and proceeds back through my childhood, highlighting the associated growing pangs. There are separate kiosks for family, friends and miscellaneous recollections. Spoke B is Bravery. Not much to see here. I am proud of the quality, not the quantity on display. C’s theme is Crazy Ideas that never came to fruition while D covers Desires. Some content is repeated between C and D. Rest assured, exhibits in D are not morally compromising, but still NSFW.

E is all about Education gained from formal institutions and real-life occurrences. F showcases Failures, including setbacks and overall humiliation. Allow extra time to peruse Spoke F as there’s a lot to see here. G houses all things Glorious, whether secular or sacred. H is for Humor. This is a subjective spoke. I presents Information gathered over the years that is totally frivolous. It’s a catch-all vacuum. I don’t know why I can’t part with this information. Everything in Spoke I should be purged.

So, enjoy my brain. It’s not a bad place to spend the afternoon. I hang out here as much as possible. Before I forget, the tram back to the departure pad runs on the top of every hour. If you leave your contact information upon exiting, maybe I can Y.I.K.E.S. on over to your mind to compare content. I’m sure we have a lot in common.

I'm still not sure why I was chosen to be the first to ever journey into the vast and turbulent fuckery of my own mind, but there I stood with my wife. I was surprised when I was told that I could bring a guest. My wife, Sweetie (not her real name of course, because she'd kill me if she could be linking in any way to my writing) was the obvious choice I figured that she more than anyone else deserves to get some answers as to why I find the topics of trailer parks and human sexuality FUCKING HILARIOUS. Now, if you were to combine trailer parks and human sexuality into one topic, I would probably laugh until my sphincter prolapsed leading me to slowly bleed out as I chortled, giggled, and cackled into a blood loss induced state of brain death.

Well, there we stood my wife's dainty hand in mine, in front of the quietly buzzing portal that swirled with multicolored lights that kind of made me wonder if this is what a person on an LSD trip sees when they try to eat a handful of Skittles mixed with M&M's and Lucky Charms marshmallows. We'd been told that this miracle of modern science before us would transport us into the recesses of my mostly irregular, far from the acceptable operating standards of a healthy human mind ready to go where no one should really want to go in the first place.

Strangely enough, considering the scientific wonder that was about to happen, there was a surprising lack of fanfare as we stood there. In fact, all the lead scientist did was tell us to go with an indifferent waive of his hand. It reminded me of the way you might waive your hand at your waitress at Denny's when she comes to offer a refill of your coffee while your mouth is stuffed with the last bite of your Grand Slam Breakfast. So, without further adieu or adon't for that matter, we stepped into the portal.

Now, let me say that the trip into my mind was a bit anticlimactic. One second we're in a lab within the bowels of Whatsa-Matta-U College of Science and Technology (located in Frostbite Falls, Minnesota of course) and the next we're in this weird hallway lined with doors of all shapes, sizes, and colors. The floor was carpeted in that split pea soup green shag carpeting that was popular in 1970's. To our surprise, we weren't alone because in the middle of the hallway stood a little leprechaun-sized man who looked EXACTLY like Curley of the Three Stooges.

"Welcome to your wee whittle bwain," he exclaimed stepping forward with a smile that was just a bit too happy.

First, the strange little stooge stepped up to me and gave my hand a firm shaking and then he kissed me full on the mouth. While I tried to remove the Curley slobber from my face, and the Curley taste off my tongue the little perv turned his attention to my wife. He didn't offer her a handshake. Instead, he immediately attached himself to my Sweetie's leg like a horny barnacle and proceeded to vigorously dry hump her leg. Of course, I jumped in to save her, but I didn't have to do much because with a practiced movement of her arm, she grabbled little Curley by his littler Curley and gave it a good twist. To no one's surprise, Curley immediately lost all enthusiasm for adding a stain to her jeans and dropped to his knees.

"What'd ya do that for!" he groaned as he tried to untwist little Curley.

"I figured if it works for the whole you when you get a bit randy, it'd probably work for whatever the fuck you are," my wife replied while checking to make sure that her new Levi's were Curley cum free.

"Okay," I said, trying to sound mature, "I think you need to control yourself and who exactly are you?"

"I'm the most responsible voice in your head, so I was elected to be your guide." Curley replied, cautiously and very gingerly moving away from the missus.

"GREAT!" My wife and I responded in stereo.

"Geez. Think ya would be a little grateful to have someone to help you get through the cluster fuck wrapped in a gorilla circle jerk that is your psyche." Curley whined, his feelings somehow hurt.

"Maybe we should get on with it," my wife said motioning to the hallway and all the doors. "What exactly is this place."

"This my dear," Curley said with a theatrical waive of his pudgy hand, "Is your hubby's, "Hall of Important Stuff. Everything that he values is behind these doors and it's all organized by category."

"You'd think there'd be labels on the doors," my wife said approaching an ebony black door with a skull door knob.

"I wouldn't..." Curley gasped trying to stop my missus from opening door.

It was too late, because with the same quickness she used to grab Curley's berries she grabbed the door knob and pulled the door wide open and was greeted by a thunderous wall of noise. The force was such that it knocked the wee horny bastard poor off his feet and like a music grenade sent him flying about twenty yards further down the hallway.

"I'M ON THE HIGHWAY TO HELL"....." "I SEE A LITTLE SILHOUETTO OF A MAN SCARAMOUCHE, SCARAMOUCHE, WILL YOU DO THE FANDANGO"....."FAIRIES WEAR BOOTS YEAH YA GOTTA BELIEVE ME..."

Pummeled by rock lyric's, it took all of my petite Irish wife's strength to get the door closed. With the sonic bulldozer finally contained, Curley was able to stand up on his pudgy little legs. Any enthusiasm the little perv may have had left was officially gone. Now, he stared daggers at Sweetie.

"That is your hubby's music lyric room," he grumbled as he made his way towards us wiping his bald brow. "It's totally useless, but pretty fucking encyclopedic at the same time. PLEASE ask before you open another door! This hallway is filled with stuff that is worthless to us, but it can still be VERY dangerous!"

"How about this door," I asked pointing to a multi-colored door.

"That's one of my favorite's," Curley replied. "Go ahead."

So, expecting the worst, I opened the door and was greeted by, "Rabbit Season!...." "Duck Season!...." I'd obviously found my Looney Toons room. Sweetie was quick to point out that there was a lot more looney toons to me than could be found in that room.

The tour continued from there. Curley was an adept guide and quickly pointed out the more dangerous parts of my mind. The biggest danger by far was the great void that was my intellect. He explained that my stupidity was so intense it was starting to become a vacuum and there was real fear amongst the voices and my personal demons that called my mind home that they could all be sucked into the void's vast nothingness. The running theory was that if I ever reached the watches FOX News level of stupid the void would expand into a vast black hole that would first pull in the various elements of my psychosis and eventually gain enough strength to draw in all life on Earth and eventually the entire planet.

From there Curley led us through this sad little cemetery. Ever the sensitive soul, Sweetie couldn't help bust ask who was buried there. Curley explained in a solemn tone that the cemetery was the resting place for all of my dreams that had died.

As we made our way through the maze of headstones one grave site caught Sweetie's eye because it was covered with fresh flowers and lit candles surrounded the burial mound. Curley explained that this was probably the saddest broken dream of all and he didn't want to talk about it. However, after Sweetie threatened him with another twist of his little Curley he explained that the departed dream died the day my puberty ended. Surprisingly, the memory of that tragic dream brought a tear to our guide's eye as he told his tale. The dream he explained with a sob and a sniffle was that I would achieve at least an average sized penis, but it was a foolish dream because I was Irish and small even by Irish standards. More than a wee bit uncomfortable remembering this long departed dream, I couldn't help but look over at Sweetie. Of course, her eyes held more than just a single tear, and unable to hold back the loss, she sobbed and wailed for what could have been. However, as far as I was concerned that dream need not be remembered and I was ready to move the fuck on.

Eventually, we came to a trailer park at the end of a gravel road. The trailers were run down and of the single wide variety. County fair midway prize tapestries depicting Quiet Riot, Lynyrd Skynyrd, and Confederate flags hung limply in dirty windows. Their frayed and faded polyester functioned as curtains hiding their denizens from the light while filtering out the smell of cheap cigarettes and charred grilled government cheese sandwiches. More than a few trailers had rusted Camaros and Pintos up on blocks in the front yard. The dismal air in the trailer park was filled with the smell of a septic system that was stretched beyond it's structural tolerances and somewhere the depressing silence was broken by Free Bird's endless guitar solo For some reason, Curley seemed nervous and put a finger to his lips warning us to be quiet.

It must've looked like Sweetie and I were going to say something because Curley, whispered, "This is where the other voices that live in your head and your personal demons live," he explained while looking around nervously.

"I don't want to disturb them because I owe half of them child support and the other half are pissed because I said that Jeff Foxworthy isn't funny and that a dating website catering to first cousins is A BAD idea," he explained in hushed tones.

Taking his lead, we quietly left the trailer park behind and after what seemed like forever we found ourselves in what looked like a huge art museum. The paintings on the wall seemed to express all of my emotions from the blah all the way through hatred.

"This is where your emotions are housed," Curley explained. "Each painting depicts an emotional response to an event in your life. Everything is categorized. Joy with joy, horny with randy, angry with angry etcetera," he noted taking on the tone of snobbish. EuroTrash.

Sweetie walked along examining the paintings. When she got to shame, she noticed that there were a few paintings that were covered up.

"What are these?" she asked gesturing towards the covered paintings.

"Oh those," Curley chucked. "Those depict times when premature ejaculation led to a bit of disappointment for her and spoiled the mood for all involved. Pretty embarrassing, so the artists are taking their time, so unlike your hubby, they're not finished yet."

"Moving on," I grumbled as Sweetie chuckled.

At the end of the museum stood a huge gate with a sign above it that read, "To Go Out of Your Mind, Exit Here."

"Well, that's your mind. Such as it is." Curley said pointing towards the gate. "I'd like to say it's been fun, but I can't. I'm gonna be walking funny for a week thanks to your wife AND NOT FOR A FUN REASON!"

With no reason or desire to delay our departure, Sweetie and I stepped through the gate and found ourselves back in the lab. Of course, the scientists were there waiting to poke and prod us. Apparently everything came back normal and we were allowed to leave.

As we were leaving, I couldn't help but overhear the scientists, Dr. Badenov and Dr. Fatale chuckle.

"Going off half-cocked," Badenov chuckled. "Hasn't Shallowgenepool heard that you gotta think about baseball?"

"His poor wife," Dr. Fatale said in sympathetic agreement.

Peering through this thick fog, I blink bleary eyes. There are shadows and shapes just out of my reach. My hands blindly search through the intangible vapor, so many evaporated and unshed tears that Alice herself would sail the world had they just been allowed to condense and fall. There are shades of deep, frigid blue that taint every surface further back than I am able to reach out and touch. A shaky breath in, and I reach further. Further into what feels like uncharted water, so blue it becomes black. Filled with unidentified creatures lurking just beyond the surface. My breath leaves my chest with a ragged hiss as my fingers slide against one now. It rears it's head up, looking up at me with such familiar eyes that I stumble back upon locking gazes, a shock wave zipping down my body from my skull all the way through each individual toe.

Suddenly I am screaming for help but every cry falls on deaf ears. Panic shakes my chest, vibrating my core and I throw my body against white padded walls. "Please, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, please," spills repeatedly from my lips and I feel my face tingling and vision starting to periscope in and out. My nails claw desperately against my own skin, anything to prove that I am still real and I exist. Red weeps out around me. I tear pieces of my hair out to stitch my wounds up with. No one is coming. I am alone in this empty cage.

Every so often They come and remind me that I am bad. That this is my punishment. They force needles into my arms, slam me face down against the ground when I ask if I may see outside, then kiss my forehead. "This is because We love you."

I can't recall how long it has been now. I am hanging in the closet next to that fancy suit that is pulled out once a year on special occasions, small feet wedged into too large boots. I find myself wishing for the moths to munch on me next just to feel their fluttering against my skin. I am not pretty by the time I am next laid out on the bed. One last wear before I am in a box with the broken toaster and that old Christmas train that doesn't chug around the tree anymore. I am part of the isle of misfit toys now. A memory that no longer serves a purpose.

Doors without knobs

Everything locked inside

Vast corridors of doors

Stretching into infinity

Dream dream now

The only escape

Memories behind

Memories faded

All locked inside

Dream now

The only escape

You ask to enter

But I say no

Dream dream now

The only escape.