Ground Control to Doctor Pon

The molecules of air had reconfigured, and he could feel them, sloshing and slogging together. He was poured in cement, was far away from his body, giving it directions on a time delay. The lag made it awkward to move through the sloppy air. He blinked and saw a flash of the inside of his eyelids. Honey-combed planes of undulating geometry soared past. He opened his eyes.

He walked along the curb, balancing tentatively, concentrating hard to place one foot in front of the other. Not to place his foot on the crack, not to loose his balance.

He walked along the edge of memory and consciousness, concentrating hard to take in the words coming from their mouths. Not to get distracted by the honey-combs, not to drown in the cement.

The words came and went, faded away. Each distinct and meaningful, but together a misshapen rabble of sounds.