A contribution by Ty40

I’m patted down for weapons and have to put my scalpels on a black plastic tray. The choirs are real, albeit a looped recording, but the heavens are fake, watercolor substitutes for those of us who are fobbed off with a bit of glitz and pomp. Firm resolution is the trick to move forward and reach the place (not topographical of course, only an idea in the domain of templates) where I finally can come to my senses again.
In the end, it was a flight into perdition. But I insist on a second chance. And here I get it.
After what feels like a millennium of deep contemplation, I eventually merge with one of the shimmering intelligences that are gravitating towards me, time and time again. The silver cord of liquid light made up of hundreds (thousands?) of tendon like fibres and connecting me to my earthly existences is still intact: I can go back, I have to, we have to go back because there's still so much to do.

(8/10. Next up: “Eight Fits“)

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