Night 4 - Thought-Form Residue

He stands in a grocery store aisle. Every item on the shelf is unlabeled. Just blank white packaging. He picks one up—feels the weight—puts it back. He doesn’t need anything, but he’s there anyway. A buzzing light above him flickers like a heartbeat.

Ahead, an intercom crackles on:

“Please proceed to the meat section for answers.”

He obeys without hesitation.

The aisle stretches far longer than it should. Each step echoes like it’s inside a cathedral. He doesn’t wonder why. That would be inefficient. At the end of the aisle, the floor tilts slightly—barely noticeable unless you’re paying attention, which he always is.

He reaches the meat section. Instead of slabs of meat, there are glass cases filled with organs—hearts, brains, lungs—all labeled with names he doesn’t recognize. They’re still pulsing.

Above them is a sign that reads: “Emotion Clearance. Final Sale.”

A man behind the counter smiles without teeth and says,

“You forgot something when you were born.”

You don’t speak. You never do, not when it matters. The black box in your hands wasn’t there a second ago, but now it’s heavy, vibrating like it’s scared. It smells like burnt metal. Inside, something is alive.

You blink and suddenly you’re not you.

He is in a room with mirrors for walls. Every reflection shows him doing something different—one crying, one laughing, one standing completely still with blood up to his elbows.

Only one mirror reflects him as he is now. But it begins to crack.

The shattering sound is thunderous, but nobody reacts.

He is back in a school hallway, but the lockers are filled with teeth. Yours, probably. A voice over the intercom screams, “Smile for the camera!” and a flash blinds him.

And now you are sitting in a room that you know but cannot name. The floor is tiled with fingers. Some twitch. Some point. All accuse.

There’s a woman sitting across from you with her eyes closed. She speaks with your voice.

“How do you feel?”

You open your mouth to answer but moths pour out instead. A few stay behind and flap against your teeth.

The chair melts underneath you, but you’re standing now, in a basement made of books. Every page is blank except for one line in each:

“You already made your decision.”

You didn’t.

Did you?

The ceiling opens like an eye. You fall upward into the sky, and the stars are all numbered, arranged into an equation you should be able to solve, but it slips through you, cold and wet.

You land in a bed that isn’t yours.

You are no longer alone.

There is something in the corner. Not a figure. Not a person. Not a shadow. Just a suggestion. Watching.

You ask, “What do you want?”

It doesn’t speak. It doesn’t have to.

It knows you better than you know yourself.

Then the ceiling collapses.

And I wake up.

Just like that.

No flinch. No gasp. No pulse racing or sheets clinging to sweat. Just the fan spinning above me like it never stopped. Just the faint, familiar sound of water in the pipes—maybe the neighbor’s shower, maybe the house itself groaning with old age. I stare at the ceiling like it has something new to say.

It doesn’t.

I sit up. My feet touch the floor in the same way they always do. I let the cold remind me that I’m still here. Still bound to the same routine. The same walls. The same everything.

Dreams mean nothing.

Emotions fade.

And whatever that was? It’s already gone.

I won’t waste time thinking about it. Because in the end its just a meaningless dream with no substance.

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