Warmth

One thing I sometimes crave is a cavern. Friends from long ago told me about a cave they went somewhere in Georgia, with some crystals in certain sections that a photograph flash could make lasers out of.

When you’re walking at sealevel and sky above so it feels like you’re extending outward, and everything at you. There’s something comforting about having four defined walls and a short roof. To close out all the chaos and restructure something from your own thoughts, let it hover above the table til you’re staring at a rendition of a Beyblades tournament except with neon sparks for each collision.

You can get real close to the other side of you, the one still remaining when you drift off. Because that one roams around the sprites, half-life places too — you’ll find yourself in a chair overhanging the citadel a hundred years to come. Cars flying below while you’re still in your mud-hut away from home; who wouldn’t want to dot the forest with LEDs for fireflies, since they’re all gone now?

And it stays with you, certainly. It stays when you venture out. A waft of dream from your corner and so it disperses along the sidewalk as any marshmallow cloud should. With half enough opened eyes so a fog descends between streetlights confirming you are no longer of this world. You’re instead the orchestrator of a world to come, Nicene dreamers pushing you along, into the balmy night.

Such balmy nights leave one inclined to huddle away even further until deranged. To make one’s own opium den: arms molasses while it all passes and you can merge into the spectating slot. To a point of no return: to the point where you realize that if you venture deep enough so each step drapes the world in your separate vision and the psychonaut suit makes you unintelligible.

One could argue making your own obscure website is no different than retreating to a cave. May as well make yours.