You are in a box. You’ve only a handful of inches to any side—left and right, before and behind.
The world trembles and rumbles. Every so often, it tilts inexplicably.
Faces appear in front of you. Squinting. They are four to five times the size of your own. They coo and murmur. They insert large appendages through slats in the box. Pink appendages. Brown appendages. Appendages knuckled and supple like tree branches, each trying to poke and scratch you.
Voices ask if you’re okay and you want to say, “I’m in a box! How okay can I be?” Instead, you ignore them and hope they go away. Continue Reading