Lying here, in the random space between the fiction and reality of this world and the next, I am contemplating. This space, it is small and confining; even the mildest claustrophobic would feel trapped in here. But not I, never I. Nothing ever happens to I in this space. Me follows the same rule here. There is no person, no thing, no noun to be or adjective to see or verb to do. All is space…

The only thing there is in this space is time. Countless hours and minutes and wayward seconds that drifted off the busy schedules of three-piece suits and floated like leaves in Fall to this place. They can roam free here; stretch themselves out as far as they want until seconds do really become minutes, and minutes become hours, and so on, and so forth, until years turn into eternities, and leave you waiting for a endless lifetimes. You can’t die in this space, because death is a noun.
Eternities and immortality in random space, which is why this space can afford no other name but random. What other name can be given to this place, where seconds can really stretch as long as they please, and laws of man and woman and creature apply to nothing, simply because there is nothing to apply them on? As you long as you can retain your shape, as long as you remember that you exist, you can wander through it; flying or crying or dancing or singing or simply just being alone. At least, you can in your mind. You can’t really do it, of course, any of that stuff, you can’t even be in random space technically, you just think you are.
In random space, you must never get lost. If you get lost, and forget who and what you are, you can never get back. Never get back to your dog or mother or the many things you could ever possibly value, even things you’ve never thought of. You will become part of the endless seconds, minutes, and hours, stretch so thin, a needle could glide through your soul.
Like grass. I miss grass. In random space, there is no grass. There is no floor in random space to grow it from, and even if there was, there’d be no seeds to plant and no water to nourish it. And even so, if random space had all these things (even though it wouldn’t be random space anymore) I’d have no feet or hands or fingers or skin to feel with and no dew to get the same wet, squishy feeling in my sneakers that I used to hate. Maybe there is grass in random space, but then again, it’d just be more random space, without any features beyond white and endless to define its existence.
I long to feel in random space, but since feelings are nouns, I can’t feel anything. I can feel no pain, anger or betrayal. And I cannot feel joy, ecstasy, and love. But then again, in random space, there’d be nothing inspire these feelings. There’d be no people to love or hate or to hurt, or even things to trip on as so to feel embarrassed or self conscious. There would be nothing to read, or see, or physically do so that I could feel something.
There is no heat in random space, or cold. I miss heat, I miss the Sun. Random space is a space away from Space, so there are no celestial bodies, and I wouldn’t have the sight or sensors to see or feel the sunlight anyways. There is no fatigue, or bed, or covers, or the ability to sleep. I long to sleep again, though this is like I have been wandering in a dream all along.
All I can do in this random space is not be, and not think, and not move, and not do or feel or say anything at all. All I have is time. Time upon time upon time itself, thick and thin time which is truly neither thick nor thin, times people always want is, time they need, the time they crave for and shave seconds off their day for. But those seconds and minutes and time set apart to do other things always ends up here, because it’s never filled. It’s set upon a shelf, gathering dust and waiting to be used. So, it’s gets tired of waiting and ends up here.

I can’t go back now, which is why I tell you this. Obviously, you’ve made it here, to random space. Everything you are seeing, smelling, feeling, all of it is just what you remember. Congratulations. You still remember.

How do you get out?

I’m sorry.

I’ve seem to have…

…forgotten.

…What were we talking about?