Written while listening to "Home To Me" by Josh Kelley on loop. R&R.

.x. Home .x.

Silent, ethereal matter. He's weightless, he can't move. He could yell for help, he has yelled for help, but there's no use – no one is around to hear the echoes of his voice, if, in fact, the echoes exist at all. He can't tell how long he's been there, a minute, an hour, a day, a week… He's simply there, with no forward or backward, no North, South, East, or West, nowhere to go and nothing to do.

He can't remember how he got here. He's dead – he realizes this much – but he can't think how it happened or where he was. He can't figure out where he's ended up. When he looks down, it dawns on him that his body has been left somewhere far off – or perhaps somewhere very near, but it was not with him. He has no body, no voice…he doesn't exist. He is a fragmented delusion of his own nonexistent imagination.

He wants to go home, if only he could remember where home was.

He hangs there, suspended in his own disbelief and confusion, for several hours, perhaps only several seconds. Voices come from the darkness, from the silence, from the nothingness. Snippets of conversations he can't hear enough of to comprehend. Then one great voice, foreign and familiar, as though dredged up from the distance basins of his past, and, had he been human, had he been real, had he been alive, he might have cried.

"Mr. Prongs would like to welcome Mr. Padfoot home."