Of acid nights.

We stepped inside the room. It was all white. The clock stopped ticking. Of course it did. The room is not from this space. But are we?

The morning after. The smell of booze. The ache between the legs. The fluctuating mood.

The room is still white. And the clock is still not ticking.

The flawless late night talks have vanished into thin air.

“Where are we now?”

“In empty space.”

“Look me in the eyes, and tell me we are real.”

“We are as real as the nothingness around us.”

“Let’s go home.”

“This is my home.”

He stood up and got dressed. He stepped out. The clock started ticking. I fell into deep sleep. Awaiting the start of another dream.