You are waiting for a bus. One drives by, empty. The second is cancelled as the bus arrives. The third is driven by an eldritch horror with an infinite number of limbs. It does not know the route.
You glance at listings of vacant houses to rent. The moment you look closer they are occupied. They have always been occupied.
“Clean and green,” the cows low. Rivers run an unearthly viridian. The water is rumoured to grant eternal life. The water is rumoured to kill instantly.
Road cones grow sentient. They whisper secrets about you.
You have to sign up for a RealMe account. The captcha asks you to identify shifting pictures of ancient runes. As you click the squares, it comes to you that you are not real. You never were.
The path between the domestic and international terminals is a test of virtue. The sages say only the pure of heart may enter. The oracles counter that only the pure of heart may leave. The truth is closely guarded by those souls stranded in the smokers’ hut.
“We must build up not out.” “We must build up not out.” Towers stretch into oblivion. Many children have never touched the ground.
Clothing in the capital grows darker by the day. Soon every jacket is its own black hole, sucking in tourists who disembark from gargantuan cruise ships.
The motorways are under construction. They are always under construction. They stretch to unimagined planes of torment and ecstasy. They will allow you to reach those dimensions seven minutes faster.
The country is mentioned in a blockbuster movie. The populace rises up to cheer as one. You do not know what you are cheering for. You do not know that there is a movie. You are in the movie.