I write to you from what I am now empirically convinced is the inside of a time warp. Which, to be clear, is an experience and not in fact a container I can exit.

Whatever divinity is at work here won’t answer me, even when offered tobacco and prayer.

Understandably, everything is suspect.

The moon is supposedly moving the tides and reflecting everything, but I’ve been watching it for hours and it continuously displays the same blank lie of a face. Is it not the grand conductor of the grief current? But yet it reflects no hint of blood anywhere.

It can’t be trusted.

Time in here passes extraordinarily slowly. I can’t seem to get out of this day in spite of repeated efforts at closing my eyes and counting all manner of living things. I am afraid that when I see daylight again I’ll be too bitter to attune to its fine fall beauty.

I have searched all my belongings but can’t find the instructions for Manual Mood Shift in Spite of Repeated Daunting.

It is an uncomfortable place, meaning, there is no familiar comfort to give or receive here.

Of utmost peculiarity is the dysfunction of miracles in here. Case studies seem to indicate that the line between life and death itself is weak, somehow faulty. It keeps glitching as one might expect in a light bulb run on too much (or too little) power. Those who are ready to cross over are left wandering the empty halls of disappearing memory, shrinking in adjustable beds. Simultaneously, the landing strip has gone dark, and there is still no orientation, so the new ones are getting lost. And otherwise healthy creatures are being eradicated in places where no war has been declared.

Nothing can be counted on here to go as it should, the very word ‘should’ is becoming a meaningless relativity.

My final noticing is that the sound system in here is bizarre. Things seem either muffled or bubbling, like they are screamed into pillows or uttered while drowning. There is an ongoing coupling of a sharp high keening weep, and a low growling moan. I’m wondering if they are the full emotional vocabulary of the same creature.

And to be forthcoming, I may be that creature.

It’s all quite mysterious. I’m beginning to think the night itself will never end, although the bright empty liar of a moon is in fact very slowly progressing across the sparse and freezing sky.

There is nothing else to report.
That is not accurate…
There are simply no more words.