Excerpt from The Last Furies:
When Evie disappeared, I wondered about all sorts of things, including my own sense of reality. I wondered about the photos of Evie I had burned, and the five that remained, and what their place in my life had become, or would become.
We are made up so much more of what we are not than of what we are. This was one of Evie’s refrains, one which she didn’t speak glumly or tragically or even with a sense of wonder, but rather as a neutral stating of physics, of dreams and psychic bundles. And while Evie’s disappearance did leave a deep emotional imprint on me, a scarring one, it also felt like a test. As if reality, as a strident quizmaster, had issued the challenge—Evie? Evie, who, exactly?
Astronomers theorized that, based on its chemical make-up, the dust from the nebula that gave birth to our sun would taste like raspberries. And the closer you get to a black hole, the slower time runs.
So, I reason, following someone down a rabbit hole can also double as following them into a black hole, where the closer you get to its mysterious center, the slower time runs, and eventually you reach the point of no return, the event horizon, and you watch yourself freeze into a phantom imprint, the X-ray of a void, and this dissolved incarnation of you continues plunging into the dark wonder, the atomizing tantalus of the abyss.