There are no memories. Only the wind. Only myself.

Even that is gone.

I know what things around me are called. The tree is brown, its leaves are green. The sky is blue, clouds are white. The little dots below me are people, and when I move closer to the ground, the dots become insects. I see all, but I have no eyes.

The sky. That’s where I am now, I think. Below me, green, brown, and tan squares. A farm. Where I came to know these things, I don’t know.

Thoughts pass fleetingly. I wish I could grasp them. There are no memories.

I move below the clouds, through the wet condensation. It tastes like lake water. How do I taste things?

Descending even further, I come to a mere five feet above the stalks of corn, and move toward the.. the house.

This story has no comments.