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I refused the salt bath.
On the second night, I woke to find my left hand writing in a language I did not know. The letters were spirals. Snail-shell sentences. It wrote: “The spine is a ladder. The blood is a staircase. Climb down.” I burned the page. My hand wrote it again on the wall in ash. Delirium -Nikraria-
My watch still ticks, but I no longer believe in hours. My hand is writing this, but I am not telling it what to say. Somewhere below, the child in the yellow coat is laughing. The mushroom is still in my pocket—or rather, my pocket is now a mushroom. The distinction no longer matters. I refused the salt bath
Wave.
She is not hunting you.
“No,” he said, tying a knot. “You are the Delirium. You always were. Nikraria is sane. You are the fever dreaming a city.” Snail-shell sentences
And in Nikraria, during Delirium, that is far, far worse.
