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Through the tunnel

Crossed over on July 27, 2008.

I had crossed over.

I was dead. Dead, and alive. Dead, alive, and somewhere in between. I was. I am. Or am I? Who am I?

It was a tunnel. A tunnel to another universe, all right. And I had dove straight down it.

I tumbled. Time stopped. Time started. Time didn’t exist. Time had never existed.

Forever. Not here. Before. I was in a tunnel. A tunnel of light. Brilliant light.

Time had stopped again, stopped again before it had even started. There were ducks everywhere.

Murp! Murp!!

Gnomes. Horrible, ghostly gnomes circled about the tunnel, laughing and snorting, mocking me as I traversed time itself, backwards, forwards, sideways, and sometimes not at all. The Brundlesphere was a terrible and awesome thing.

The gnomes danced. My mind reeled, blinded by the perfunctory synergy of cacophony that meeted and greeted me at every turn as I tumbled down the tunnel toward the Brundlesphere.

Time stopped. Time started. Time elapsed. Time ran backward in my mind, but forward elsewhere.

Colors. Burning air. Red, stinking, burning air. My nose was ablaze. I was on fire with time and life.

There was no longer any such thing as “dead,” or “alive.” I was dead. Alive. I was both, and neither. Time resumed. Discontinuous. Piles of gnomes enflittered upon me. The colors screamed. The sight was deafening. The noise assaulting my every pore blinded me.

I was dead.

Dinner plates flew from every direction, assaulting me, shattering as they struck my armored cranium.

I was alive.

A point, shaped like a twelve-year-old boy, appeared before me. It grew. Time grew.

Time shrank—ran backwards. I ran backwards, in place, fleeing from the gaping horror that was the point at the end of the tunnel. The yawning, gaping horror. The horror.

The tunnel ended.

My buttocks flapped.

I was in the Brundlesphere.