Thomas Erickson
March-April 2024
I close my eyes, as directed.
I am lying on my back. There is a pillow beneath my knees, and another beneath my head. My arms have been carefully positioned on their own supports. I am as comfortable as I have ever been.
Behind my head is a massive machine. It is all white, with rounded edges; it has indicator lights, and subtly designed controls labeled with alien glyphs. The machine is dominated by a circular opening that leads into a cylindrical passage filled with radiance.
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