“Time does not exist here, only clocks…”
At least that’s what the sign read.
Pat watched as the train pulled into the station.
Even before the cars made their last lurching stop the commuters were pushing towards the doors. Each individual shared the same distant look of submission as they surged forward in mass. The same look Pat had seen on stray animals going for a last walk to the country side. Later fond stories would be told of a beautiful farm and all the scraps of food old Lucky was enjoying when last seen.
That was the last thought the traveller had before his mind faded into a dark oblivion. Panic was now his first.
It was always that way when first waking up with the new host. Old imprinted personalities would fight to remain dominant. Then as the collective mind sorted out reality they’d submit to the ownership of the current presence. It was the way.
Bright lights danced about the disorganized piles of writing and manuscript. The quiet of the Library was unnaturally extra silent this morning. Even the occasional intrusive presence from other realms and realities had been absent now for the majority of the day.
The Sage took this as a welcome I’ll omen of things to come. Peace and solitude are a rarity in his place, and as he had written before: Never look a gift horse in the mouth.
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