Delirium -nikraria- -

Wave.

That was Day One of Delirium. By Day Three, the walls of Nikraria began to breathe. Not metaphorically. I pressed my palm to the plaster, and I felt a slow, wet inhalation. The city, I realized, was a single organism. The canals were its veins. The bell towers were its teeth. The people? We were just fleas dancing on a hot skillet. Delirium -Nikraria-

And in Nikraria, during Delirium, that is far, far worse. Not metaphorically

I am writing this from a room at the end of a pier in the city of Nikraria, where the sea smells of rust and old prayers. Three days ago, I was a cartographer. Now, I am a cartographer of the inside of my own skull. The canals were its veins

Instead, I walked to the Spire of Unwound Clocks. At the top, I found a room with no door. I had to break through a wall that tasted of gingerbread and grief. Inside sat an old man weaving rope from his own beard. He did not look up.

My watch still ticks, but I no longer believe in hours. My hand is writing this, but I am not telling it what to say. Somewhere below, the child in the yellow coat is laughing. The mushroom is still in my pocket—or rather, my pocket is now a mushroom. The distinction no longer matters.