To respire the universe. She’d like for everyone to at least almost know what that feels like—to stand under fur-black space and be full and warm from the night’s spreading vacancy. “You are all part of that. Let it fill you up,” she preaches aloud. “Let it fill you up, or fill yourselves up with it. Either is good.”
Only cacti are present—not the kind she likes to eat, but tall, reaching-like-antennae cacti. They broadcast emotions in response to her, hormonal pulses that thump the still-warm orange dirt. She receives them fine, her nose wrinkles, and she side-eyes the cacti with suspicion for a beat.
Sometimes she knows she’s not sane. She’s become paranoid and visibly twitchy and she’s plenty aware of her absurdities and maybe it’s time she stop going out into these Christing deserts and—
Her attention returns.