... on tiles
You’re standing on tiles—above tiles, above tiles—and every time you shift your weight you set off a composition of rubbing, tearing, breaking, scraping. But it’s cushioned: in this dimension your footsteps are not as loud, your weight doesn’t feel as heavy to the ground, as in your birth dimension.
You hear your breath, you hear the rushing noise, and you trust your ears: this dimension envelops you, as does this deep muffled noise, this unceasing, vast noise that is surely always there, even when you aren’t —you are standing right in the middle of this being. You lift your head, squint, and see the brightness of day through the water’s surface.
You hear Anna say:
“I don’t know exactly where you are. But I’m with you. Now I’m walking over to a blue square object in your vicinity. It’s about the size of a medium-sized table. It’s near the street the tram runs on. Sometimes it spits water, sometimes it doesn’t. It’s pretty bulky. You’ll find it nearby. Come to it, we’ll meet there. At the blue square block and on page 30.”