(Silly me, expecting an actual mushroom.) But somehow things have shifted, and I’m both here and not here at the same time. No, it’s worse than that. It’s more like a feeling of being simultaneously dead and alive, like a furless version of Schrödinger’s cat. I obviously didn’t draw the placebo card this time. In the distance of the not-here I see when I close my eyes, a carnival tent splits open. It’s the lone splash of color against an otherwise never-ending stretch of murky grayness. From inside the tent a low-pitched, slurring voice starts to gather tempo and volume. It sounds like the Professor’s voice, with the curious addition of a carny twang. He’s like a drunken ringmaster, and as he speaks, the fog begins to lift and when I open my eyes, images from not-here superimpose themselves on the previously white walls of the room. Slowly the familiar pages of a magazine come to life around me, and somewhere, a curtain lifts. Ahem. Welcome. Welcome, and don’t be shy!
