HE COUNTS THE 18 BREATHS...

He slides through the barriers within the corners of the room. Feet spaced between amber journeys, worlds colliding within moments. He counts the ten trillion souls, counts the eighteen breaths, the two thousand footfalls, the singular sigh, always the singular sigh. There is no silver journey, there are no keys to realms, no golden ships towards adventure. There is darkness and sunsets, eyes that flicker between nothing and everything. The vortex of realms is never full, never in plenty. There never was a wonderland, no matter how far he nostalgically peers into the past, no matter how wide-eyed he looks into the future. So he slides through the barriers within the cosmos of the room. He quietly watches you sitting motionless at the table, hands outstretched on the ancient surface, breaths steady and even. He watches you curled up in an origami ball on your bed, fidgeting and mumbling, speaking the five tongues in collusion, in momentum. He waits for you by counting slowly.