Sitting on the porch.

Sitting on the porch of Peter's home was akin to feeling myself not to exist. It was as though I were trapped between two warring brain lobes.
The chickens gave me little solace, appearing perturbed behind their majestic fence.
The entire air of the back yard to Peter's trailer was one of another dimension.
It wasn't so much a departure from one's own dimension, however as, sitting in the blindingly blue invisible aura of the trees, amidst the discomforting flies, and with the trees offering little solace, one felt as though one had walked through a door and turned back to find that there was no door. In that burning Present, the world outside appeared to be a mirage, and I felt myself to be a wisp of wind in a desert.