So he could sleep. So he could dream. So he could get back to his real life.

Where was he? Where was he going, that vast depression sitting on top him - he had a place to go, it was fine, he'd be there soon. He kept on, someone was behind him he could barely remember, it was important he was there - for reasons he couldn't remember, he glanced back, see, fine - some guy, same as the rest - he kept going, he'd be there – shortly.

It had been an hour enough/enough to - a new group, enough, anyway, he didn't – know; more leaving/more joining the same colour jacket; he couldn't see the colour, anymore, everyone, the plane was the same, the television black blank, the minds of those around him, himself. He could dream tonight.

He had to dream tonight, he was desperate to, get out of this, get through it, this was the shortest part if he just drifted - don't focus on it; don't let yourself focus on it, don't let yourself even see all this, play it through you -

He couldn't see the colours now anyway, in a way he couldn't remember, didn't want to think about, didn't in anyway matter; everything was the same.

There were no colour differentiations that he could see consciously. These were beneath. He felt himself glancing up, it didn't matter - there were body reasons, biological reasons Mass - he thought, for it, he just drifted, he'd done it before, the best thing, always. - He'd learned this lesson when – he couldn't remember anything before this lesson, that if you didn't focus, if you just let yourself drift, your mind/body; you'd end up in the corridor correct. Just follow the rest to feed tube/fall on the correct hole for shit. The correct hole for piss. The correct hole for semen, and after final madness, for the semen hole, you were anyway finished and you could sleep.

And you would sleep. And this wasn't real anyway. He had no reason to think it was, it simply wasn't real, a way station between the outposts of life, solely this. Drifting on his body, he found, he could spend the whole time - it only existed here - not in the other place in which he really lived - unconscious, unalive, unthinking. After he'd done/paid the necessary, acceptable, unavoidable in fact righteous, he'd been emptied, this was under it all too - when he'd paid that price, into a shit hole, piss bucket, or woman, he could wake up.

He'd have paid the terrible, but necessary price for his beautiful life, and he'd be back where he lived. In the real world, and there – except occasionally for a terrible fear when he knew it was time to return – this place he was currently - it did not exist. Didn't even exist.

A change; something intangible. He glanced among the rectangular, closed, corridor habitations, pulsing intimately; especially inside, but also out, radiating who he was; what he had to do, his very lack of being in this place, and his own desperate need to just get through it. - Don't think.

Not hardly even to breathe; never reflect. Thinking was pain - just drift until he'd been emptied and then go inside.

Something had changed.

He looked up.

Like something had cracked the whole world

Beauty,

in the dark.

Her.

It was. her.

Again,

again.

Again, he'd never seen anyone again, he couldn't recognise faces, this was not necessary, not something required, it didn't happen here; in fact for biological and chemical reasons – it was – impossible/purely practical - even to see a face again or recognise one/that/it,

a face even identified a specific person.

But it was her.