Racing Towards Something
Imagine you got into a rickety time machine that was a storage gem from the crown of Twilight Zone's reign. During your trip back to seventies suburbia you hit a few strangely shaped meteors on the way. Blood slicked knuckle bones as big as watermelons, amorphous globs of molted flesh, white hot glass shards of a dull shaded rainbow. One was even sharp enough to tear a sugar slit in the tent around earth's atmosphere just big enough for you to be sucked through and see what's on the other side of the mirror. You know, the place where you brush and spit your teeth into every morning?
No longer do you give yourself a pep talk there. No longer does the reflection match memory. No longer are you sure of what gets a rise out of you.. and how high until you fall back out.