If you wake in a world almost your own, you've arrived in the spaces which exist parallel to it. The months are not markers of time, but alive and watching. Each has its own rules, its principles, its hungers. Your memories are a currency here. Tread carefully, and you might reach the end. Falter, and you will be consumed by them . . .

January watches, silent and wide

February hums, close behind

March stretches its fingers into unseen corners

April folds itself around the edges of thought

May shivers, bright and fleeting

June leans, heavy with heat

July burns and blinks, restless

August sighs, carrying whispers of what was lost

September twists, half-hidden in shadow

October tilts, unsure

November hums with quiet storms

December waits for you . . .