He started to cry. Then he started to laugh. It was the same sound.
At first, Q thought it was a deer. But its legs bent backward at too many joints. Its fur was the color of a CRT television tuned to a dead channel—that dancing, nihilistic gray. It had no face, just a smooth, oval head, but he could feel it smiling. shrooms q hussie
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 started to cry