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Mary Makary's avatar

Everything has changed. People insist the world is the same, but they're either lying or they can't perceive what's really happening. The air doesn't stay air anymore. It thickens into the same dark, curdled menstrual clots that slide out of me, except they're everywhere, coating the walls, hanging from trees, collecting in the corners of every room. I can't tell where my body ends and the environment begins because they're made of the same substance now.

Color isn't something I see. It's something that invades me. Blue tastes like cold pennies. Red crackles across my tongue like electricity. Green smells loud. Yellow screams. Every sound has a flavor and every flavor has a shape pressing against my eyes. People think I'm covering my ears because of noise, but I'm trying to stop the taste before it fills my mouth.

Nothing belongs where it should anymore. The sky leaks into the floor. Voices stain the furniture. My own thoughts have colors that everyone else pretends not to notice. They say it's impossible to taste sounds, but they're wrong. They've forgotten how, or they've agreed not to admit it.

They tell me I'm imagining it, but how can I imagine something that never stops? Every hour the world rearranges itself into blood, colors, and noise that all mean the same thing. I spend all day trying to decode it because it feels like it's directed at me. If I ignore it, I worry I'll miss the message. If I pay attention, it grows louder. There's no place that's free of it. The whole environment has become a language only I can perceive, and I don't know whether it's trying to warn me, punish me, or erase me.

OldBay's avatar

I don't sleep because that's when they recalibrate the envirinment. Everyone thinks it's just air, but it's full of cosmic quarks and photons drifting into my mind. I keep moving because if I stay still, they settle into my thoughts.

People laugh when I explain it, but they laugh too quickly. The immigrants don't even realize they're being used. The communists are the ones behind it, turning the sky into a transmitter. They don't need antennas anymore. They use starlight. Every photon carries PFAS information, and I can feel it striking me. That's why I know things before they happen.

The wind isn't random. The clouds hesitate over certain buildings. Streetlights flicker in coded sequences. Everyone else walks through an ordinary world. I walk through a battlefield where reality itself has been weaponized. They're trying to bury me under a storm of cosmic particles before I expose what they're doing.

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