Upon a jutted rocky formation on the face of a cliff, The

Conductor lifts his baton in silence. On the beach below, the brain, all tattooed and tattered, is suspended, motionless, in the soggy air. 

My empty skull, like an underwater desert, has forged a tulpa. He grows out of me, enmeshed over my image. Box-like, camera-frame. Entangled, sweaty hair, nerves, and bone, we vibrate against one another. The Conductor’s movements morph into tearing motions. Unphased by

ripping flesh, a schism is rendered. Me and my tulpa break further apart, and now I can’t feel my hands. Cranium drained out.

Oozing from fog, Lucida and The Cameraman arrive in the forest. The atmosphere is syrupy and close. Vision is obscured by swelling treetops and spindly spiderleg twigs.

Lucida is the first to rouse. Gliding between the trees, they reach a fork in the path. Following them both, Lucida is repeatedly glitched back to the splitting point, over and over again. Notwithstanding their struggle, Lucida finally hurls themself, with enough force, back into the viscous miasmas of nonexistence.

The Cameraman follows in their footsteps, arriving at the same tear through which Lucida departed. Perhaps he lacks the impetus, for he is glitched back to the splitting point time and time again, before eventually surrendering

to his new dwelling. To welcome his arrival, the tattooed brain sifts through the treetops, embedding itself snuggly in the thick forest air.