The walls begin to breathe in color, violet sighs and liquid gold, time loosens its collar, slips— no longer something you can hold. A hum beneath the skin awakens, like galaxies behind your eyes, every thought becomes a ripple in a sea that’s breathing, vast and wise. The floor dissolves to painted glass, fractals bloom beneath your feet, whispers curl like drifting smoke— soft, electric, incomplete. Then— A crack. A seam. A velvet tear in everything you’ve known. A rabbit made of neon static glitches past, then is gone. You follow—of course you follow— down the spiral, stretched and thin, gravity becomes a question as you fold yourself within. The rabbit hole is not a tunnel— it’s a living, shifting mind, walls of eyes and melting symbols, clocks unspooling, undefined. You fall through laughter made of echoes, through memories not your own, through childhood dreams and ancient futures woven into one unknown. Then— You land. But landing feels like blooming. A forest hums in ultraviolet, trees drip starlight from their veins, rivers flow with liquid mirrors showing ten thousand different names. Creatures made of thought and color turn to greet you as you stare, one with antlers made of music sings a question through the air. “Why do you cling to edges, traveler, when you are the endless seam?” And suddenly the world is breathing with the rhythm of your dream. Mountains bend like slow exhalings, clouds dissolve into your skin, every step creates a universe, every glance pulls you within. The rabbit reappears—now smiling— eyes like portals, deep and wide, it nods as if you’ve always known it, as if it’s always been inside. You reach— But reaching turns to merging. You are the forest. You are the fall. You are the question, the hole, the call. And just before it all unravels, just before you drift too far— You remember: You were never lost in wonder. You are where wonders are.
