04/29
          desires of the birth-given identity carry over to other identities with more intensity; personashifted identities lack the reserve and self-control of the birth identity.


04/28
"What are humans turning themselves into?" Tyler asks.
          Opaline remains silent, watching the backyard through a window. A pair of deer stand in the tall grass, lounging in sunlight, munching on the heads of dandelions.
          "I'm leaving, Tyler," she says. "I need to get out of here. You can come along, or you can stay."


04/27
          the technique was discovered by examining the area of the brain involved in a child's ability to pretend. it was further developed by utilizing brain processes that occur while dreaming.


04/26
          he wore a coat whose metal buttons would jangle as he moved his arms.


04/25
          a woman with a face stuck in a square-shaped frown, so stuck that when she smiles the corners of her mouth remain pinched tight.


04/24
          Once fed, caffeinated, and clothed in hopefully-inconspicuous disguises (Joanna's uncharacteristic dress, Carl's awkward button-up shirt), the two take to the streets on foot, slipping out a back door, over fences, and through some yards to a sidewalk. They walk at a brisk pace, trying to find a balance between making good time and not attracting unwanted attention. Flittering chirps of birdsong surround them and accompany the dawn sky's exploding colors. In the crevices of domestic America, human life begins to stir.
           “We have to ditch the car?” asks Carl, adjusting the rucksack on his shoulder.
           “My cousin will take care of it,” says Joanna. “She's got a hook up with a friend in Idaho. She'll trade it around, do some swapping. Mix up the plates. Should cover our trail, at least long enough for us to make it across the Rockies.”
           “But, riding the bus?”
           “Jesus, Carl.” She glares at him from behind thick sunglasses. “Would you personashift? I can't stand all your whining questions when I'm in a hurry.”
           “I hate the shift, Jo. Waking up is always so hard.”
           “For you, maybe, but never for any of your other identities.”
           “I'm afraid of the lasting side effects,” says Carl. “I've heard stories about people losing themselves, from shifting too often, or staying as a different identity for too long.”
           “Listen, mister, we need to keep on our toes if we're going to make it out of this, and if that means shifting more than you're comfortable with, that's the way it has to be. You know as well as I do you won't make it far as yourself. Shit, take a Xanafrin if you have to.”
           “Who are you right now?” he asks, trying to catch her gaze.
           Joanna smirks, looking straight ahead. “I've shifted twice this morning. Keep up.”


04/23
          "But master! Does not the fire need the water? Does not the mountain need the storm, too? Does not your scrotum need kicking?"


04/22
“Wake up, Carl.”
           The voice is distant, slow, and soothing. Carl, deep in a default mental state, follows the soft, strangely familiar voice, letting its echo guide him like a breath of wind in a cavern maze. Except, in this case, without the voice, he would not have realized he was lost at all; knowledge of an existence outside the cave had been temporarily forgotten, or ignored.
           “Don't think about it, Carl. Wake up.”
           The voice of a woman. A caring voice. A mother?
           “Carl!”
           Carl remembers speech. A combining of air from lungs with patterned movements of the tongue and lips. Yes, thinks Carl, this is my mouth. He opens it, then closes it.
           “Who are you?” he asks.
           “Don't say that, Carl. You know who I am. You've forgotten. You can remember. You always do.”
           Carl remembers vision. He opens his eyes. Floral wallpaper. He sits up. He is naked in a bed. He looks around the room. A wooden dresser. Unlit lamps. A closet. Dim light leaking through drawn blinds. Pictures of faces, in frames. A clock is ticking, somewhere.
           “Where are we?” he asks.
           “The home of a family friend. A distant cousin of sorts. In California.”
           The voice is close now, very near. Carl turns his head. His wife Joanna is standing beside the bed, before a door, wearing a green dress and a sunhat. Seeing and hearing her then, Carl remembers everything.
           “I didn't think we'd have made it this far so soon.”
           “We still have further to go. So get dressed. I want to be out of the state by noon.”
           Carl is already reaching for his pants. “Do you think the police are on to us?”
           “They know we were in Oregon.”