Hem started forward and moved with the speed of the wind, desperate to act but unwilling to act with any purpose. He just needed to act. His face felt like a dream and he swam through the air and blinked the air out of his head. His mind raced as it lumbered through gargantuan thoughts. He had consumed too much, taken too much, had enough of a reality that did not concern him.

“Are you okay Hem,” asked Breema without a question mark. It was her trademark, the question-less question. Was that her name? Breema? Was her name Breema? It was something like that. It was a standard name here in the Island Realm (in the South O’ Things) but Hem bein’ not from around these parts it did not register as neither a standard nor a non-standard name. It was just a name. A name she said was hers and so he took it on faith that it was indeed. And why should he doubt? She had as much reason to doubt his name, which to her ears sounded like the sort of sound you made when you spewed somethin’from your throat following a bout of Bervern’s Cough, the nastiest around.

The sun was a spiky orange thing emitting painful barbs of light to everyone who glanced. Hem kept his gaze on the the surface of the Heated Waters. They reflected the sun’s piercing insanity so it did him no good.

The bottle of Grogididy’s was half full. It glowed almost from within. The golden liquid caught the burning sun’s light and reflected a light of its own that was so lightless it almost drank itself in ectassshttysvyy. Hem chuckled at the thought.

“Yeah I’m fine,” answered Hem to Breema, answering the question she had asked three hours ago, or seemed to, given the state of affairs. Had she even asked him? It did not make any sense. Nothin’ made sense tonight. Even the stars were a mess. His eyes drooped and vision doubled into a blurry artist’s painting of what the world might look like if colors were not real.

“It’s been a long few days,” Breema said, or seemed to say. It was tough to be sure since she did not move her mouth. It was not a problem.

“Yeh.” Hem had done his best to destroy his own cultural heritage, particularly the part that wheezed “aye” at every other thought another person lobbed into the open. Now he was sayin’ “yeh” too much and it made Breema (maybe her named was Breetcha?) kind of sick and tired of the whole posturing involved forcing yourself to be anybody but who you are.

“I’m out, Hem. Time to pick up some Fruity Briggers.”

Fruity Briggers were their favorite, but they also needed some, so she had to pick them up for practical reasons besides them just being their favorite. It was a mess. It was a total mess of a point of view and nothing about it was adding up into something. Into anything really.

“Could you pick up an extra Fruity Brigger? For old time’s sake?” Hem kicked a ball-sized blast of sand into the air. It scattered into the wind. He tripped over the hole he had inadvertently dug and planted his face into the warm ground. He would lay there awhile and sleep this off.