He was sitting in his apartment; well, the apartment that he had in this version of reality. He thought on the television and was changing channels with his mind; the television sensed what he was in the mood for and changed to a program suitable to his liking. His phone rang as he reached for a cup of coffee, so he diverted his hand to the cell and he tapped the screen. His ringtone was a Beatles classic... It was good that they had existed in this version. Unlike John Lennon's Imagine, he had lived through what the singer sang. He cracked a smile. "Hello.... Max?" "I'm here," he replied. This time he got to his coffee cup. "What's up, Goner?"
"Nothing. Just wanted to talk, that's all. Didn't know who else I could call at this time," Goner said. "Hope I am not disturbing you?" "No problem on that," Max said. "I've got nothing but time." "Just that I couldn't sleep and needed someone to talk to." "After all, it's your first shift," he said. "It's to be expected." "This is freaking me right out," Goner stated. "I'm here, and yet things are the same but there are some differences. It also feels like there are tiny ants crawling over my brain." "That's an after effect. You'll get used to those once your brain falls in sync with the worlds."
excerpt from phased_from_reality's journal at Blog Nation: His name is Max and he came to me in a dream. I peeled onions like bugs on a window, roasting like a dog on a sidewalk. Falling forward into the pit of demons with tiny pitchforks dancing about like a zombie rave. Music pulsating like blood through veins, rejuvanating the likeness of youth. Me: You are who you say you are? He: I am who that person that I introduced you as. Me: Why are you doing this? Why this confusion? He: Why not. Replied said and done like a serving of dinner. An awkward eternity before the sun rises again for the third time in this portion of the dream. Lucid dreaming, a sea of possibilities? Me: Who is scanning the spectrum? He: I can't answer that. Me: Why can't you? He: I'm afraid to. Acts go by, with the same scenes played out over and over. A record skipping is a thing that has to be heard, unlike a cd player. Bring in the old school, learn from the new and together we shall bond as one.
The summer sun was waxing across the sky, as Max's eyes flickered open. He was lying on the ground and had no inkling on how he got here and what he was doing. Vague images played through his mind like a 1940's newsreel. His cellphone chimed. "Hello," he said after answering on the fourth ring. He noticed several cuts on his hand and marvelled at that. "Well?" the voice on the other end was feminine and impatient. "Well what?" he inquired. "Where the hell are you?" "At this point in time, I really don't know," he answered truthfully. He got up from the ground and saw that his shirt was torn and there were blood specks. "But wherever I was last doesn't look too good at all!"
