For a time that is blessed and terrible you are exposed as if peeled to the diaphanous membrane around all there is. The bubble that has enclosed your individuality dissolves. Visions pin you to the table. You are speaking but does anyone hear? You are trying to tell them about the tormentingly brilliant black and white squares that make a floor and angle up the wall like a distorted room in a fun house. It isn't fun.
Then he appears. He stands or is present on the right side of the room, in the long tan duster you used to think so pretentious, reassuring you, once again offering rescue from a perilous situation, those that later made funny, self-deprecating stories. Encouragement. He should know. He died seven months before and described the images he was seeing those last few days, told you that he was going to say things that might not make sense to you but made sense to him. If this is really the antechamber to the next world, it will be okay he seems to be saying and you think, well I have always talked about death as something we must accept not fear. I can resign myself, but sadness accompanies the thought. A regretful, oh well.
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