I wanted to argue. But arguing was what got me here. Three weeks ago, I stood up in a community meeting and said, “The sky is not a ceiling. It is a wound.” That was enough. In the old world, that was poetry. In the new world, it was a symptom.
One more. The tenth mu began at dawn.
I turned back to the mirror. On the other side, Dr. Venn was screaming into a radio. Orderlies ran. 092124-01-10mu
And I remembered. All of it. The war that wasn’t a war. The collapse that wasn’t natural. The way they built the facilities to hold everyone who could still see color in a grayscale world. I wanted to argue
Day nine: I slept four hours. I dreamed of water under ice. I dreamed of a moon called Europa, and the creatures that swam in its dark ocean, singing in frequencies no human ear could hear. When I woke, my bracelet read . It is a wound