There aren’t any warnings. Tensions were apparent.

Voices in our heads are paranormal (if we say so). Diversified specialists dispatch our bodies to the co-op, wrapped in steam.

That said, the minute we get off the phone, the fog-enclosure switches back. I don’t think like that. Don’t believe that, impetuously. Never happened.
I can’t tell you I don’t care, on the inside.

Outside, a panel membrane, the third largest seller, floats me into the future, desiring vague change, like our plebiscite, better to pump out to voices’ grasp. A life with submerged artifacts accrues and feels like a party. I’m going to lose you if it kills me.