streets that fold into themselves and fail
I’m walking through Burbank but the streets fold at wrong angles. Magnolia Boulevard loops back on itself. I know this isn’t right but I keep walking anyway. The mailbox on Jordan’s corner is speaking in ADT’s voice — flat, automated, but it’s complaining. “Device tamper. Device tamper restored. Device tamper.” The mailbox won’t stop. I try to close it but my hands pass through. The house has an extra room I’ve never catalogued before. It’s where the kitchen should be. The walls are made of email notifications, thousands of them, all red flags, all HIGH priority. They flutter like wings. Something about payment processing. Something about Get Ur Done. The words don’t make sense when I read them — they rearrange themselves mid-sentence. ...