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Souls can’t move that quickly, and are left behind, and must be awaited, upon arrival, like lost luggage.
Homo sapiens are about pattern recognition, he says. Both a gift and a trap.
Somehow she sleeps, or approximates it, through the famously bad hour and into another mirror-world morning. Waking to an inner flash of metallic migraine light, as if reflected off wings of receding dream. Extrudes her head turtle-wise from beneath the giant pot-holder and squints at the windows. Daylight. More of her soul has been reeled in, it seems, in the meantime.
