Chapter Text
Balanced on the lonely, knife-point edge of waking and sleep, there is nothing.
Though perhaps that isn’t the right term. There are many things there, the ambient filter of sounds, smells, and textures that are nearly everywhere still just as present as they are anyplace else. Perhaps there is just nothing truly meaningful there, though what counts as meaningful varies from one to the next.
Maybe that grey in between is simply something that needs no description, an experience only for those actively experiencing it. Perhaps something more… elusive would be better.
So, balanced on the desolate, knife-point edge of living and dead, there is nothing.
And then, as one Herbert Pocket would soon find out, there is everything.