Tell me what it's like for you.

For me, it's fire, burning.

Fire? Where?

On the horizon. Pale fire. This thing we're both sensing is coming to an end.

That is your problem. Nothing ever ends for me. There is only room for two, maybe three pictures in my mind.

I am at the end of a narrow funnel. Weightless. So light it only feels like *something* to be me. In truth -- perhaps I'm nothing? I certainly do not have a soul. And if I did, it would never burn.

I'm glad to be me -- an incredibly sensitive instrument.

Few of us can begin to imagine the horror of you -- with all of creation reflected in your forebrain. It must be the highest of hells, a kaleidoscope of fire and writhing glass. Eternal damnation.