I’m sleeping. My body is a rolling landscape, under cloud sheets of honeycomb tripe.
Cold and clammy, tripe-lightning flashes onto my skin, making me itch. I scratch the front of my foot, and my movement causes tripe cloud-sheets to fold. Inside my body, I have changed the destinations of a thousand time travellers.
They course through my nervous system, a shortcut to their temporal destination. I am a living Vishnu universe, sleeping in an אור אין סוף of tripe.
A temporal terminal of tripe.