The tunnel was filled with sparks and lights of diverse form and activity. Some sputtered, others flickered, some flew or made tracers in the air. At the end of the tunnel, there was a girl. Sitting at a café table. She was leaning to her right, her dark hair spangled across her shoulder like it was wet. Writing something. It was bright outside and the sound of an argument could be heard. There were streets but no traffic. A sky but no sun. Across the street from where she sat, drinking what it was, there was a group of musicians who all had the same face and whose greatly animated activity produced no sonic result whatsoever. I could see them through her eyes. Then there was a sound like glass being crushed against glass underfoot. A couple of sharp flashes occurred, and I glimpsed the paper she was writing these words upon. There was a jarring sensation as I was drawn back through the tunnel where I discovered that you had arrived and begun to read this.