Yesterday morning you told me about all about your dream, but I didn’t listen. I tried to pay attention, but coffee beckoned. You said something about poison…? A conspiracy…? Superheroes, and how you had to fake your death. That was enough; I didn’t need the details, so I nodded and went into the kitchen.

People say about mirrors, maybe that other world is real, but it doesn’t scare you because you know.

…I don’t have much longer; I heard feet landing on the roof. It might be Superman, or Spider-Man, or any of them. They’re all here, and they’re all after me.

It’s been two weeks. The details are complex; the plot in which I am embroiled cannot be described on a single used napkin.

They’re coming. I need to escape. Or I need to make them think I’m already dead.

I wish I’d listened.