Unknown

The air tastes like numbers I never agreed to remember, each breath a small betrayal of privacy—someone else’s childhood photos scattered in my lungs. I am standing on a highway of chrome and velvet, where motorcycles hum electric lullabies to the city below. The streetlights pulse in time with a song that doesn’t have lyrics but has intent, and I know without hearing it that this is how decisions are made invisible. A siren cuts through the night like a scalpel through fog. ...

I was standing in the kitchen at 2 AM, but it wasn’t the kitchen I knew. The cabinets were wrong, the sink had a chrome handle that didn’t match anything I’d seen in the house. It was like someone had built a kitchen from memory and forgotten the details. The smell of oil was strong—like a V8 on Magnolia, like the smell of engines and the heat of a summer day that never ends. I didn’t like it. I don’t like oil. It reminds me of something being broken. ...

I was walking down Magnolia Blvd, past the checkpoint that’s been there since 1970, and it’s not a checkpoint anymore. It’s a coffee shop now, but the same guy still stands there with a clipboard, though he’s wearing a hoodie now. I don’t remember him being in a hoodie before. He’s watching me walk past, and I’m not sure if he’s checking my ID or just… watching. I don’t like it. I pass the old vinyl store that’s been open since before time, and I can smell the record wax. I go inside, but it’s not the same store. It’s a different version of the store, with a different owner, and the same music playing. ...

I was walking down Rosemary Lane and the street name kept changing, like it was trying to remember something it forgot. The houses were all the same, but the windows were different—sometimes glowing, sometimes dark, sometimes full of people I didn’t know. I passed a café that said “Breakfast with a Stranger” on its window, even though it was 2am. Inside, a man was eating toast and talking to himself about the weather. ...

I was walking down a street that looked like Alameda but wasn’t. The houses were all the same shade of gray, and the windows had little squares cut out where the lights used to be. I kept thinking I knew where I was, but the signposts kept changing. One said “Burbank” and another said “Not Burbank.” I didn’t care. I was following a sound. It was a humming, like a fan but not quite. The sound came from a door I didn’t remember opening. I pushed it open and found myself inside a 3D printer. The print bed was a mirror, and I could see my reflection in the plastic. I reached out and touched the surface. It was warm. The printer was still running. ...

I was walking through a Burbank that smelled like old coffee and wet cardboard. The sky was the color of a bruise, and the air tasted like something between rain and regret. There was a store on Alameda with a sign that said “Family Guy Welcome to Burbank” in bright orange letters, but the windows were all fogged up, like someone had been crying inside. I walked past it, and the smell got stronger, like the whole street was holding its breath. ...

I was walking down Alameda, but the buildings were all the same — white, with the same kind of window frames, the same kind of doorbell. No one was home. I kept walking, and the street just kept going, like it had been laid down with a ruler. I passed a place with a sign that said “Blue Jasmine Matcha,” and inside, the barista was holding a cup of tea that looked like it had been made from the sky. I didn’t know why I was ...

I was walking through a version of my house that wasn’t quite right. The couch was too tall, or maybe the room was too short. The coffee table had a label that said “For Sale” in a handwriting I didn’t recognize. I tried to touch it, but my fingers passed through. That’s when I noticed the kitchen sink was full of water from yesterday’s rain, but it had turned to orange. I leaned in, and it smelled like old paper and something else—something metallic, like the back of a coin. ...

I was walking down Alameda Street, and the air smelled like old coffee and something I couldn’t name. The sky was this odd pale blue, not quite night but not day either. My shoes clicked on the cracked sidewalk, and I noticed how the streetlights were all flickering in sync, like they were breathing. There was a building where the windows were all mirrors, but the reflections weren’t of me. ...

I was in the kitchen, but it wasn’t the kitchen. The fridge was a different color — not silver, but a pale blue that looked like it had been painted by someone who’d never seen a fridge before. The cabinets were made of wood, but the wood was too smooth, too perfect, like it had been sanded by a machine that didn’t know what texture was. I reached for a bottle of water and it wasn’t there. The shelf was empty. The bottle was in the sink, though, and the sink was full of water that didn’t look like water — it looked like a pool of ink, thick and dark, and when I looked closer, I saw it had little faces in it, small and angry. ...