The Dreams

Over a year later, the dreams were still vivid. Perhaps more so.  His senses had not dulled and his sight had not adjusted. After years of taking Squid he could no longer simply stop seeing gravity. It existed around every person and object he could see in little, radiating waves, like topographical lines on a map. He could no longer simply judge where objects were, and the amount of times he missed the handle of the morning coffee mug left his apartment bereft of kitchen ware. It became simpler not to use his hands for any more than a loose gesture, helping him focus and manipulate the gravity, moving the object with his thoughts. Nor could he stop dreaming the dreams of other people. They leaked in to his head. Sometimes they were scary. Always they were strange. But occasionally he indulged in them. This latter case was more frequent since the new neighbour moved into the apartment next door. She worked for Lin now, but before she had existed on Earth and still had nightmares about the nights she was captive in a Japanese hotel without an address, when dark, curled figures clawed at her body, bound to a bed slab. He enjoyed those dreams.

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The Dreams

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