Souls
I was sleeping in the room I grew up in in Tampa when my soul kept leaving my body, hurtling toward the ceiling and writhing in the corner up there. My body lay on the bed thinking it should just stay still until the soul comes back. The body should be exactly where the soul left it or it might enter something else. The soul returned. My soul was a wild, crazed beast — armless, legless, headless — but its entirety was consumed by a sense of direction that was panicked and incoherent. I knew it would return. Souls are lost without vessels in which to travel.
