The air’s so thick – so humid. You could drink it.
Damp on the walls. Spores in the air.
Like it’s all been underwater. Forever. Like it was all underwater for the longest time.
Are those butterflies? Winter butterflies?
Are those birds? Bats?
Are those clouds, inside. Are those clouds? Is it fog? Like, inside fog?
What are those things? Like weird, primitive lifeforms. Throwbacks to what there were before there were leaves … trees …
What’s that smell?
Eau de decomposition.
I think there are stalactites … something’s dripping.
On the wall, written: TIME ZONE. On the wall written: ATRIUM OF TIME.
We’re in the realm of death, postgraduates. We’re in the realm of dying. Suspended death. Death, interrupted.
Work in Progress 