Q looked into the void. He saw himself at eight years old, crying over a dead goldfish. He saw himself at twenty-two, drunk and screaming at a mirror. He saw himself tomorrow, making coffee, forgetting this entire conversation except as a vague, golden ache behind his eyes.
The Hussie stopped weaving. It pointed one segmented finger at the mushrooms in Q's hand. "Because you finally took the training wheels off your own skull. You stopped trying to be clever for five minutes. That's an eternity for you." shrooms q hussie
He chewed the mushrooms. They tasted of dirt and lightning. Q looked into the void
The forest began to fold. Layers of reality—past, present, the memory of a bad breakup, the smell of his grandmother's kitchen, a comic panel he'd drawn in high school—became translucent sheets of vellum, stacked on top of each other. The Hussie stood up, and as it did, it peeled back the top sheet like the lid of a shoe box. He saw himself tomorrow, making coffee, forgetting this
"Q," it said. Its voice was the sound of a dial-up modem kissing a banjo. "You rang?"
He typed back: "yeah. hussie came by."