To my right, two men discuss the high cost of dying. They seem to be related. The younger one calls the other Uncle Jack.
"Uncle Jack," he says, "If you concider how much money a man makes over a lifetime, then the cost when he dies doesn't seem that exorbitant."
"Yes, Graham, but what you fail to notice is, that a man does not only make money, but spends it as well." Uncle Jack has a good point, but Graham is persistent.
To my left is a kitchen, I wlk in and see an egg frying on the stove. I flip it with a spatula and continue walking.
I enter a crowded smoke-filled room, crammed with people drinking beer and scotch. The chandelier is dim and the smoke makes the room gloomy. Nobody is really talking; they're just saying hello and things you might say upon introduction. I look across the room and see a boy sitting alone. He's around sixteen; he's got a scotch in his hand, but appears hesitant aobut drinking it. He sit's looking off, his unfocased eyes like black glass embedded in his pale young face.
Again, I turn to the left, and reenter the kitchen. The eggs sits frying as it had before I flipped it. Confussed, I pick up the spatula and flip it.
Continuing, I enter a large white room. The white walls, floor and pillar shine like glass. I can see no light fixtures, but the room is clearly lit. The room is empty except for one television on top of the pillar in the center of the room. The television is on and a bald man wearing black speaks of a man on the west coast who performs miracles. I decide to leave, but cannot find the door.
I turn to the right, and once again enter the kitchen. There sits the egg, unflipped. I pick up the spatula and flip it.
Turning to the left, I find myself in bed. I'm lying beside my wife: I'm not married. I look again and the face changes rapidly, again and again, until finally a girl, whom I've never seen before, lies next to me, dead and covered with blood. I get out of bed and wring my fingers through my hair.
I turn to the left and enter the kitchen. The egg fries on the stove, unflipped. I pick up the spatula and flip it.
I turn to the right and I'm sitting in an immense concert hall. A rock band's instruments are on stage, but I'm the only one there. I get up and walk towards the stage. As I put one foot on the stage, a band appears, as well as half a million screaming fans. A man on the stage hits me with the butt of a rifle. I fly back wracked with pain. People start trampling me, and I rush to the back. I feel sore and tired.
I turn to the right and once again stand staring at an unflipped egg frying on the stove. I pick up the spatula, I flip the egg. I hear a noise like wind howling through a crack in a door.
I turn to the left, I'm on my knees in the middle of a dessert. My clothes are torn and ragged, and my hands and feet are mangled beyond repair, covered with blood. I scream in pain, but no one can hear me. I scream louder, but all in vain. No one will hear me and it doesn't relieve the pain. I've gone from bad to worse, and I think I want to turn again.