I have been sitting at the table with the Bohemians, dipping bread into a saucer of honey for what feels like than an hour when the Bohemians vanish into thin air. I look down at my plate. It transforms into a speckled composition book. My fork disappears, replaced by the red fountain pen I have seen Zelda using on so many occasions. I thumb through the notebook. All the pages are blank. I close the notebook, but it opens again by itself. The blank pages dissolve into a mound of angry, crawling bees. I slam the notebook shut, holding it closed with my fists. The bees climb out through the speckles of the notebook and attack my hands and my face. I feel them sting my eyes, my ears. My screams are drowned out only by the roar of the thousand bees, angry that I have upset their home…
I sat u
