A Stamp To Mail My Mind Away Chapter 9 "A memory of someone else." (c) 2022

 

9“A memory of someone else.”

“Poor

Painting on a wall across from Ground Zero Blues Club in Clarksdale Mississippi.

dog hit by a car,” Catalina said looking out of the van window. “Damn it’s getting smoky in here,” Fred said, then proceeded to press buttons that rolled all of the windows down.

 

“That smell,” Peter said in a monotone, still sounding trapped in a hallucination.

“Open your eyes,” the voice said. Its face was bright and shaded. Every three seconds the face turned black, then back to shiny gold.

“To know.” Peter said.

“What is going on with him?” Judas asked. He was concerned. Judas, was hardly ever concerned.

“Wake him up,” Samuel said.

“No, he has to go through it. Think of it like waking someone up from a dream. It will kill him,” Mammie replied.

“She’s full of shit,” Fred retorted. Catalina turned her head and looked out the window at the smoke coming out of the van, made it look like the van had a tail.

 

“Who are you?” Peter asked.

“I am you,” it answered. Then Peter saw it sucked in all the smoke that was surrounding him.  Then Peter returned, ”What was that sign?” Peter then pointed at the sign.

“This is Ground Zero Blues Club,” Samuel said as if he were some famous announcer.

 

“I can’t do this,” I said with a frightened quiver in my voice.

“Dude,” Carlton paused, putting the car in park. “I’ll get you a couple shots and a couple beers. Then you’ll be fine,” Carlton said.

“Alright,” a few seconds later, I followed him through the front door. I immediately noticed the door was pale green in color. My mind went somewhere else again.

 

I was in the morgue again. Dead bodies nude on examining tables-one of their final beds. The final bed is inside of a coffin. Carlton is gently pushing me to crowded seats-the only seat left. The seat about twenty feet away from a huge stage. A stage bigger than my whole apartment.

 

“He’ll have two shots of Jim Beam and two Red Dogs,” Carlton ordered from the very attractive female bartender. She had a shirt that had a black man wearing a three piece suit, holding an acoustic guitar. One of his eyes looked wild.

 

“Robert Johnson. Surely we will find him here!” Peter screamed, as he stepped toward the stage at a quick pace. I looked around. The walls had pictures of musicians and people had signed their names all over the place. I wondered what this was before it was a blues club. Maybe it was a warehouse, or an antique store. Had to be two hundred people in this place. There was an open space between the chairs and tables, and the stage, where folks were dancing to the bands cover of Stevie Wonders’ “Superstitious.”  I hear them talking after the band stops, “Damn. Him again.” “Everyone hates his music.” And the front man introduces the next musician who now is in the front of the stage. The crowd continues, “Just what the hell kind of instrument is that?” “Why they even let him in?”

Wait, what? Are they talking about me or the musician on stage?

 

“Drink your holy water, as you call it,” Carlton says. I take down the shot of Jim Beam, chase it down with a couple swigs a Red Dog.

I get that ‘holy water’ line from rapper Gangsta Nip lyric, “Sitting in church drinking a forty of holy water.”

 

“What type of instrument is that?” Peter asked, as they all walked to the tables to the right of the stage. “They call it a lap steel. They use it a lot in country music,” Fred replies so calmly.

 

“Well you ain’t supposed to make fun of the handicapped!” I heard someone in the crowd yell. I think they are talking about me. I see a few people get up. They’re heading for the door. Then I heard him grip a slide and play it along what looked like a three-foot piece of stainless steel with strings on it. Never heard anything like it before. I then see people looking up at the musician in amazement. “Did he just do that?” Then he started singing with a deep raspy growl. “It’s gotta’ be lip synced. No way he got that good.”

 

“See that man in black aka highway patrol wanna see my soul disappear.” The stage lights glared shadows on him. Giving the perfect shades of his we defined muscular upper body. He was wearing a stained skintight white tank top that had the words ‘Animal Cracker’ on it.

His dark brown hair was wild. His hair reminded me of Bob Dylan.

 

“There’s no way.” “It’s got to be a fluke.” “He can’t possibly sound this good for long.”

 

I was convinced that they were still talking about me. How long can I keep it all together? I got no money. Barely have a job. What is my future?

“Dude. Stop thinking! Just listen to the music! Be Here Now!” Carlton screamed at me.

 

The underdog musician paused after his song. The crowd loudly clapped and cheered. I take the shot down. A comfort comes over me as I feel the Jim Beam warm my throat, chest, then stomach.

 

“Do you think these musicians are possessed?” Mammie whispered in Peter’s ear. Peter looked at Mammie. Then looked at his peers. He saw a strange glow around their bodies. “Why are they glowing?”

 

“When he heard the musician say, “Running with the devil with God chasing me down this trail,” he noticed the musician’s voice getting deeper. Then he looked at the bass player and the rhythm guitarist. They had long tails and scaly bodies.

 

“My God there’s a bunch of demons on the stage!” I heard Peter scream that about three seconds before I yelled, “I gotta get out of here!”

“Dude,” Carlton whispered in my ears.

“I don’t know. Don’t know. Don’t know.” I forgot what I was doing as those two words brought back every memory of every uncomfortable moment in my life. The last memory was when I was in a classroom. The teacher asked me a question and I froze and all I could hear was the all-consuming mockery of my peers. With the phrases “This is the easiest question.” “She just gave the answers seconds ago.” “He’s so stupid.”

 

Then I looked behind the bar at a black chalkboard. I saw written, “Catfish platter special $11.99,”-that brought me back.

 

The crowd roared.

 

Dogs howling louder than the busiest hours of the night: tire rubber to the asphalt road, drunken people arguing in vain attempts to be heard and have some sort of relevancy.

 

“He’s going outside,” Fred told Jude.

“I’m not his babysitter,” Jude replied.

 

“What am I going to do?!” I yelled at Carlton.

“Well, that all depends,” Carlton replied with a matter-of-fact tone.

He was about to get philosophical, and I knew it.

“What am I going to do with my life?” After I asked that, a man bumped into me. Caused me to spill my beer.

 

“Jackass,” Peter mumbled to himself as he opened, and then stepped out of the door. He was pleased to see that the underdog musician was sitting on the weathered couch. He was surrounded by a few people. They were telling him how great his performance was, and how cool he looked. The musician pretended to be pleased by their approval. He couldn’t though because most of them were the same ones that criticized him. A couple of months ago, he heard one of em yell, “Get him off of the stage.” Peter stared at him. The musician stared back, “What are you doing here I haven’t seen you in a long time. I’m sorry about what happened. Come on, let’s go talk, in private.” Then he stood up and walked to Peter. Then said to Peter in a whisper, “Come with me, I have to get away from these fake people.”

“What? Do I know you?” Peter whispered back. His speech was slurred. “I’ll buy you a beer,” The musician said.  Samuel and Mammie were outside. They watched the two of them walk down the railroad track behind Ground Zero. Samuel started to follow them. Mammie grabbed his arm.  “It’ll be okay. I’ll keep an eye on them,” she said. Then Samuel walked back inside the club.

 

“Sit down here,” the musician instructed Peter. He sensed Peter would hurt himself if he walked much further. “Dude, you sounded so bad ass. You seem like the coolest guy to smoke a joint with,” Peter then took out a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket. He pulled the joint out and lit it. “I don’t do drugs. I will take a cigarette though,” the musician replied.

“Have you seen Johnson?” Peter asked.

“I gotta a Johnson for you,” the musician replied.

“What?” Peter asked.

“Which one? There’s ‘Blind’ Willie Johnson. There’s James ‘Supah Chikan’ Johnson. There’s Tommy Johnson. There’s Jack ‘Oil Man’ Johnson. Then of course, there’s Robert Johnson. Let me guess,” The musician paused to light his cigarette. “You looking for ‘The Crossroads’ right?” The musician inferred. “Maybe,” Peter answered.

“You seen Robert Johnson?”

“Dude, Robert Johnson died of poisoning a long time ago. And it is not Robert Johnson that you are looking for. You are looking for Tommy Johnson. All Robert was trying to do was flag a ride,” the musician replied.

 

Peter nervously shook his cigarette between his two fingers, as he remembered the entity that was floating above him earlier. He so vividly remembered the smell of the smoke and the sting in his eyes. So vividly, like it was happening again.

“What’s your name friend?”

“Did you just ask me a question?” Peter asked. His voice trembling. The musician pulled the smoke in quickly off of the cigarette, he noticed that Peter’s pupils were dilated. There seemed to be no white in his eyes.

“Dude, you tripping balls, uh?”

 

Then another one got on the stage. “Phillip!” I heard someone yell as he started the beginning of the riff, I just knew he was looking at me. As if he saw something that I didn’t. Like something inside my ugliness, ugliness of my soul. Something I want to forget. I those vain attempts to cover, “Very sooooppahhstisshhhughs,” Phillip sang loud.

 

“My name is Peter,” Peter replied.

“Peter uh,” the musician paused to tap the ash off of his cigarette.

“Peter. Well, some would say that the Voodoo made the Catholic Saints into their Gods. Saint Peter was made into Papa Legba. Some would say that it was Popa Legba who granted Johnson the power of rocking on guitar. In reality, though, it was probably Mephistopheles. Then again, the devil is a tricky creature. Changes itself to look most appealing to manipulate.

“Where can I find him?” Peter interrupted.

“Well, you gotta go to The Crossroads,” The musician answered.

“Will you go with me? Lead me?” Peter asked.

“Pete, there are so many Crossroads in the town of Clarksdale. All you have to do is walk and keep your eyes open,” the musician answered.

“Okay,” then Peter started walking further down the railroad tracks.

 

 The darkness, the night seemed to consume him until a few minutes later, when Peter saw the big sign, “Crossroads Funeral Home.”

 

“If you look for answers surely the questions will find you. Questions that are beyond life and death.”

“That’s heavy man. Real heavy,” the musician replied to my philosophical terrets.  Have no idea how I ended up in the three-way game. I’m not sure who I heard that term ‘philosophical terrets’ from. Philosophy searching for answers to question and questions to answer is the same the thing.  “Dude, it’s just a game,” Carlton said as he leaned into my shoulder. “Life and Death,” I answered as Phillip was playing an extended solo to his cover of Stevie Wonder’s “Superstitious.” The lyric “Writings on the wall,” was a cue for me. He was singing the song to me.

 

Something about acid trips makes a person so attracted to the thought of wanting, then believing that he/she is their own god. And if that gig doesn’t work, there’s always the Army; like Dylan said, “Join the army if you fail.” So fascinated I was about Faust. Faust was a magician who sold his soul to the devil for riches and fame. Magician does rhyme with Musician. Wait, the word musician has the word ‘muse’ in it. “Dude, break the balls!” Carlton yelled at me. “I got this,” the musician said as he shot the triangle of balls apart. Lights and cigarette smoke combined in a way to give me, to grant me the hallucination that the billiard balls were planets-the dark green canvas was space.

 

“It’s got to be here,” Peter said aloud, giving a command to whatever/whomever was listening.

 

“Damn it. Pay attention to the game,” Carlton scolded. I gripped the end of the pool stick with my right hand. Immediately, I could feel the palm of my hand sweating. Then I took my left hand, palmed the green and placed the tip of the stick in the crevice of my thumb and flesh between my thumb and first finger. I hit the white ball. The white ball goes into the top corner pocket.

 

“How?” Peter asked. Then he proceeded to walk around the funeral home, looking for a way to get inside. Took about five minutes for him to have a light shined brightly in his face. Then the Red Moon shined on a second story broken window.

 

“You have to make the climb,” a distorted voice echoed in Peter’s thoughts.

“How?”

“By the Tree of Knowledge.”

 

Then I saw the billiard balls turn into tree branches. I looked around for another sign. Phillip was singing one of those romantic songs. One of those types that makes the couples slow dance, and many times has couples rekindle, or continue to build memories. Or it maybe one of those songs that makes people fall in love for the first …

“Dude. It’s not that deep,” Carlton and the musician replied in a similar tone. Made me realize that I was talking aloud. As I remembered now, I wondered if this was when I started talking and answering myself, many times; out loud.

 

“Women, the downfall of man,” I boldly stated as I took my shot, accidentally, sinking my last ball-thus losing the game.

 

Peter climbed the tree. He was surprised he was that fit. The light inside that room was blinking because of a lamp’s light hitting a fan. The distorted deep voice persisted, “To truly have the power is to know what the living and the dead know.”

 

“Damn,” then I sighed. I stared at the green on the table-triggers my mind with what I thought, at the time, was a memory of someone else. A depressed obese mid twenty year old was drinking too much, or maybe the right amount, for him to pull the trigger on a shotgun. He was on the morgue examination table. The color of most of his nude body was pale green.

 

“Time is of no human concept here.”

 

Didn’t take long for Peter to find his guide: shadows around him taking the shape of a figure.

 

After he flipped the light switch Legba appeared. “Peter you are the incarnation of Saint Peter.” Peter was overcome with fear as his eyes fixated on the features of Legba. He had on a three-piece suit, with a gold chain attached pocket watch in his jacket pocket. Peter leaned on a table’s sharp edge. The edge reopened the cut on his finger. The cut he had gotten from the cotton gin of Dockery Farms.

 

“So you been doing music for a while?” Carlton asked the musician.

 

Now the three of us were on the railroad tracks. The Red Moon reflected a mirror on the calming waters, many feet below. “Too long,” I replied. Both of them, glanced at me. Carlton dug in his pockets, pulled out the baggy and quickly rolled two joints. Carlton offered on to the musician. “No thank you. I will take a cigarette though,” the musician replied. With a lit cigarette in his mouth, he unzipped his lap steel case, pulled it out. Also pulled out a miniature amp, “They call these ‘smoky amps’ because it is so small it could fit in a cigarette pack.”

 

“You noticed how the audience was responding to him before he got up on stage?” Carlton asked me. Then he took a long pull and held the smoke for a couple seconds. “Yea,” I pretended that I knew. At that place, where I was wondering how I got there, got here. I looked down the empty railroad tracks. The trees and shadows from the moon light and the streetlights gave the illusion that it was the ending or beginning of a tunnel. “Where are we?” I saw a row of nude cadavers in a straight line, on tables, in front of us.

“Ouch,” Peter said after he heard a drop of his blood hit the floor. The hallucinogens seemed to enhance his hearing.

 

Then he realized, in front of him, were two rows of cadavers on examining tables. They were covered by white sheets.

 

“Don’t be afraid to walk forward to move forward.” The lights blinked at a quick rate.

 

The clouds raced across the Red Moon. I looked at the musician’s face. Lines moved on his face, making his face look more and more like a skull. “There’s just something inside me. It’s ugliness, it’s beauty. It is a two-way path. One path is of the good. The other path is of evil… “

 

“Look underneath,” Legba whispered in Peter’s ear. Peter frightened, quickly turned his head. For a split second, he saw Legba’s face and his own face. “Damn these drugs are working. Hell yea,” Peter said out loud trying to dismiss his fright. Trying to ground himself back into reality.

 

…because there comes a point, when there’s a very thin line. I mean like a line thinner than dental floss, where you think it’s good or evil, and it might be…” The musician rattled on and on, as I wished I had some paper and a pen so I could write some sort of plan. I didn’t know what that plan would even be.

 

“You haven’t figured it out yet, Peter?” Legba asked. “What?” Peter asked.

“Lift up the sheet. Stare death in the face.” Legba said. Peter lifted the white sheet and looked in the face of the cadaver. His skin was like thin paper barely covering the skull. A drop of blood from Peter’s finger dripped into the sunken eye socket, onto the pupil.

“One Eye Closes. Another One Opens.”

“Where the hell is he?”

“Hell, indeed.”

“That’s not funny.”

 

I heard voices saying as I lead the way for Carlton and the musician. The musician was still explaining his philosophies, “You can only go so with hatred, with the ‘I’ll show them.’ You’ll burn yourself out.”

 

“Don’t you get worried about what they might say?!” Carlton was sure to scream that question.

 

“You are chosen, Peter?” Legba whispered in his ear.

“I always knew it. I am a god,” Peter replied.

“Yes, you are Saint Peter, The Guardian of The Gates.”

 

“It was a big challenge. I can’t tell you the number of times that I’ve played at empty bars. Even more embarrassing was when I’d play and when I was done the whole crowd left.”

 

“I saw Peter leave with him!” Fred exclaimed.

“Hey Hey You!” Jude screamed. The musician ignored him, until Jude ran up to him.

 

“God’s always present…”

 

Shiny blue lights went down the streets, a couple of blocks over from Ground Zero Blues Club.

 

“I’m talking to you!”

 

“You have to get out of here,” Legba warned, now standing in front of Peter.

“Leave my body,” Peter said with fear. Then he picked up a scalpel and put it to his wrist.

“No! You have to leave the morgue.”

 

“Damn it, I’m talking to you!” Jude screamed at the musician.

“Look, I’ll give you an autograph. Just calm down buddy,” he replied.

“You seen a starry eyed red-neck around?” Jude asked. Fred, Barry Samuel, Catalina, and Mammie were behind him.

“Oh yea, he walked that way,” the musician said, then he pointed down the railroad tracks.

 

Peter heard the garage door open of the morgue. The cadavers were from Cleveland Mississippi. It was a drug overdose, a homicide, and a suicide. “It’s not a coincidence, that three died. Or as you will find out, ‘The Other Side.’”

 

“What?”

“What’s down that way?” Jude asked puzzled.

“I’m not fooling around!” Jude yelled.

“Hey look at that!” Fred yelled. And they all looked in the direction at the hearse slowly cruising down the road.

“The morgue. It’s about a five-minute walk from here.” The musician said.

“You really think Peter went to the morgue?” Fred added. Then they all turned around and looked at Fred.

“Okay.”

 

“I need some directions,” Peter said.

“The devil’s handy work is to perverse Holy Divination.”

“What?”

“St. Peter, you leave this place now. Go out into this world and do what Saints do,” Legba said.

 

They stood in front of The Crossroads Funeral Home, “We’re not even sure if he’s in there.”

“Let’s go back to Ground Zero, he’ll wonder back eventually.”

 

“It’s almost two in the morning. Ground Zero is about to close!” A disgruntled burley guy, standing in front, had to be the head of security of bouncer, yelled.

 

“It may be insightful to go with them to the morgue.”

“This probably definitely may not even be real.”

 

“So what do we do? This is totally ruining my trip. Leave his ass. That’ll teach him,” Fred said.

“And who will pay his bail?” Jude asked.

“I have an idea,” Barry said his first words after many hours of silence.

“You probably don’t want to know,” Fred whispered to Jude.

Thus Samuel went back to the vehicle to get his ghost kit.

 

Soon after,

They are all near the funeral home.

A teen-ager drove his parent’s car down the road blaring Ozzy Osbourne’s “No More Tears,” from the car stereo, “The light in the window is a crack in the sky.”-cued Mammie to look up and see Peter staring out of the second story window quite bewildered.

“We don’t even know if he’s even in there,” Jude said.

“Are you blind?” Mammie said pointing toward the window.

 

Less than a minute later, they’re in front of The Crossroads Funeral Home. `

 

They were unseen by the police man in his cruiser, or the funeral home owner, Mr. Moton, in his pristine Mercedes Benz.

                                                         

“Well we know he’s here,” Jude said as more of a cue to a plan of action.

 

“But I haven’t climbed trees since I was a child.”

“You’re his roommate.”

“Why can’t I just go to the door?”

“Because it’s my plan.”

“No, it’s not. It’s my plan.”

“Ya’ll wasting time!” Fred yelled.

“We’ll go to the front door. Except for…”

“Fine.”

“Just do it. Don’t think about it,” Jude told himself over and over again, as he climbed the tree to get into the second story window.

“Who’s going to ring the doorbell?” 

 

“I will,” Fred said letting out a long sigh.

 

Jude crawled into the window. He didn’t see Peter. “Damn it.”

Fred banged his fist violently on the door. Mammie pressed the doorbell for a few seconds.

 

The policeman got out of his car, “What do ya’ll need?”

 

Then the door opened.

 

“Hey,” Mammie paused to concentrate on having her voice sound sexy, “Dude, where’s the party? My friends at Ground Zero said this was the place.”

 

All the workers, two of them came to the door. “This is a funeral home.”

 

It took about five minutes for Jude to find Peter. “Peter we gotta’ go.”

“I am not going. I have found my proper place in this life and beyond.”

“Damn it, Peter come on.”

“You come with me first.”

Jude thought quickly, “I got some killer kine bud from Ground Zero. We gotta go now though or it’ll be gone.”

He heard Peter mumble something to himself as he walked from the room he entered. The room he entered had a desk in the corner. A lamp that was small. Shined enough light to send shadows down an entrance to a hallway. “Follow the shadows.”

 

Mr. Moton, The Crossroad’s Funeral home owner. Had his suit and tie on. The suit was very much like the suits his predecessors wore. The funeral home might be the oldest building in Clarksdale. He had a white beard and side burns in such a way that, people said, made him look like a bear. Thus, his friends and family called him “Popa Bear.”

 

Mammie had a long story going on, “…but Tykesha said this was the house. She’s been my friend since high school…”

 

“This is a morgue. Look at the damn sign. It says ‘Funeral Home.’”

 

Jude said the magic word, ‘weed.’  ”Come on dude you got a whole cigar filled with a dime bag.” Peter followed Jude to the room with the window, to the tree.

 

“If you kids don’t leave now I’m going to arrest you for interfering with a police investigation,” the police man threatened.

 

A few seconds later, “I found it. Sorry we bothered you folks.” Then they started walking back toward Ground Zero.

 

“Where’s Peter?” Mammie asked. Then they all stared at Jude.

“Oh no. I did it last time. Mammie, you’re the one who got him thinking all weird,” Jude said.

“Fine,” Mammie replied. Then they all followed her back behind the funeral home.               

 

“I love you Mother of Light. I will spend my days worshipping you,” Peter was having a hallucination that Mother Mary, the Mary he saw on a lit candle. He didn’t know where he saw it. This strangely made him more enthused.

“Peter.” “Peter.” Peter was hugging a tree that he had climbed to get to the morgue window.

“Peter, Mother has sent me to guide you,” Mammie whispered to him.     

 

I heard the lyrics from the song “Mother” from “The Wall” movie by Pink Floyd, “Mother do you think they’ll try to break my balls,” I envisioned drill sergeants yelling at me.

“Mother, do you think she’s good enough,”-thus I thought of her. I thought of my first girlfriend in high school. The first one loved, the one you always want, no matter what, “Why?”

The Army, was it just wishful thinking? I needed some way to figure out what I was going to do with my life.

 

“Dude!” Pink Floyd continued in my head, “…and I said , ooo baby, of course Momma’s gonna’ help build the wall.”-and there we were around a pit fire. Carlton was jamming with the musician. They were playing Pink Floyd. The girls were all around. Everyone thought Carlton was so cool-as the melody to “Mother” drifted in the air and traveled.

 

“I wanted some kind of acceptance.”

 

“Mother has told me to let us guide you,” Mammie continued to try to convince Peter.

“I see the tree. It all starts with mother.”

 

“Damn it. This isn’t working. They’re going to hear us in the front. They’re going to bring the cops,” Barry said.

“We passed Parchment on the way up here,” Fred said. Then Jude              walked up and grabbed Peter by the arm and tried to pull him off of the tree.

“Could use some help here,” Jude said.

It took three of them to pry Peter from the tree.

“Turn him around,” Jude said. They turned him around and Jude punched Peter-rendering him unconscious, “Don’t worry I do this all the time when he gets out of control,” he said.

“Momma’s gonna keep baby healthy and warm. And I said ‘ooo baby, of course Momma’s gonna help build the wall.”-Pink Floyd

“Where am I?” The stars were big and the darkness of the night blanketed us. I closed my eyes. Then felt the warmth of the pit fire. The stars become the small dust and fiery dust from the flame. They were passing around a bottle of Jack Daniels. I took a swig and felt the warmth slowly stream down my throat, then warm my stomach. “Momma’s gonna keep baby healthy and warm. And I said ‘ooo baby, of course Momma’s gonna help build the wall.”-Pink Floyd

 

“Set him up, seated with his back to the wall.”

“Naw, I got another idea,” Jude replied to Fred while he eyed a glass full of ice and a mixed drink. “Mammie, go get the cup over there,” he ordered. Then he gently set Peter down.

“I want to do this.”

 

A pebble sized flame came close to my lips. I felt like I could do anything in that moment as Carlton played Pink Floyd’s “Mother,” with the musician. “Damn it! Slow down Carlton yelled as I took a long pull off the joint. We were in his black Cadillac, “Pass it dude!”

 

They gathered around Peter. “Give me the…” Mammie threw the cold liquid on Peter’s face. Immediately, he was shocked back into consciousness.

 

I looked outside the window to see the stars in the sky. Then I felt the knot in my stomach. I felt lightheaded as my blood went to my feet. The sound of the car’s engine got louder as I felt the altitude getting higher and higher. I looked outside the window. The stars of outer space were large. I saw comets, meteors, asteroids, and pieces of satellites and spaceships from those who had been there before.

“Dude. Relax.”

“How did you get this car to fly?”

“Fly? Fly uh.”

 

“Inside the blood of polluted space there are all sorts of things.”

 

“I see for once. Now,” Peter kept repeating over and over. His eyes were glazed over.

“Do you think he’ll snap out of this?”
“Yea, of course, the acid just has to work its way out of his system,” Jude said trying to convince himself and the others. The truth was that he didn’t think Peter would ever snap out of it.

 

I think it was then. Then that I learned to separate the world. It’s like pieces to a puzzle, when the pieces of what you see are removed,