There’s the door over there, if you want to dangle off the end of a long hallway while facing the drop-off point into what’s nebulous at best. Or turn around the guide though faint will help. “Grab my hand,” he says through the tear gas,
first his hand then his arm like some severed zombie limb played by Christopher Hart. Reaching out is hard to see; milky as the fog and soft around the edges from the cut of it; and I know better because I’ve watched enough TV to know not to grab onto any floating hands and arms.
Wrong. Now it’s hazy; legally blind, empty, no visual or aural cues. The guide and his hand and arm are gone. The man in the moon is hiding but still grinning I bet. I saw his coy turn in the pond sink in the garden. Before you know it, he’s back, tugging at your sports jacket, trying to sell you yesterday’s paper saying, “Excuse me mister.”
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