Waking up in a city that doesn't feel anything like the one you went to sleep in. After detailed recollection, you know that it is the room, and this is the bed. But your mind still argues. Foreboding intuition. More commonly known as a gut reaction. You fear to give in to it because it will completely decimate your comfortable sense of perception. "Don't give in," you mutter to yourself as you pick the sleep out of the corner of your eyes. You blink your eyes into focus. This is definitely the room. The same melting clock is on the wall. And you recall when you bought the poster of the giant sloth hanging on to the Hindenburg. Then it occurs to you that in this room, it is precisely as it was when you fell asleep even though it feels utterly different. But outside this room, it's not the world you were out in last night. The picture of the sloth you are looking at is not a piece of comical absurdity, but an actual representation of what happened to the Hindenburg. This replica room is in a reality where giant monsters exist. Outside the window that was behind you last night, and is still behind you this morning, Godzilla might be wreaking havoc in Little Tokyo. You hold your breath and listen. Nothing that seems out of the ordinary is heard.
You get out of bed and slowly move across the apartment, taking it all in. You reach the bathroom door, then pause before stepping inside and turning on the light. What if something is different in the bathroom? A small clue to let you know you are in a different place. You managed to figure that you are the same. You've looked over every visible part, run your fingers along the rest of your skin. Nothing unexpected, but that mole on your thigh still concerns you. Of course, there is that thought that what happens when you look into the mirror, and you are not the person you think you are. That the flesh no longer sits on the bone the way it once did. What then? You close your eyes tight and reach for the light switch. You think to yourself, if I'm not me, then I hope at least, I am more attractive.
And you come to terms with the fact that you haven’t left this place in days? Weeks? Everything is a slow fade. The dream escapes. The forty-five minutes of staring at your toes because you’re convinced they might not be your own. You watch for clues, tiny revelations. You take pictures of them to see if anything abnormal appears; like an unexplained spectral image you’ve seen in photos online. Nothing. You fade-in. You click, I’m still watching. Onto the next psychotic episode.