(co-authored by @kytri and @spazzbot)

- You’re not sure what time it is. There are no windows. It is both noon and midnight. Time does not exist.

- The florescent lights do not change. They are eternal, they blaze upon you like stars. You saw the sun once, though you don’t really remember.

- There is food somewhere. The table next to you has food. It’s chicken nuggets and fries. You go to get food. It’s nuggets and fries. It's​ the only food for miles. You’ve never eaten anything else. You are so hungry.

- You saw a print you liked. You go to find it, but you can’t. There are so many tables, so many prints. The table is gone, the artist is nowhere to be seen. Maybe they was never there.

- You try to find table F6. You’ve been through the alley ten times. You’ve seen the same prints and plushies over and over. Table F6 is nowhere. You are growing old.

- There is a sound echoing from somewhere. It is loud and shakes the floor. You cannot find the source.

- You have no cell signal. You stand on the chair, but get nothing. The outside world ceases to exist. Your face is on a milk carton somewhere.

Oooh, can I play (vendor edition)?

-You stare at the work at the person across from you all day. The prominent catgirl on the cover of their comic now becomes their face.  You try to look them in their eyes, but it’s all catgirl now.

-Your table neighbor has told you their name ten times. You do not remember it. It is in a language that is forgotten the moment it is spoken, but you’re reasonably sure it sounded like Dianne.

-The artist alley exhibitor registration is on the third floor. Now it’s on the lower level. Now it’s across the street. Now it’s stuck in a planar void between realities. A volunteer speaks frantically into an earpiece, then speaks as if channeling an incorporeal entity. You can’t pick up your exhibitor badge from it unless you have your exhibitor badge to access it.  The fish eats its own tail.

-Someone asks you if you are the artist. You are AN artist, but you would never presume to be THE artist. Unless there can only be one? Do other artists exist, or are they all an extension of the same pool of suffering and malaise, incarnate in separate bodies but ultimately one collective consciousness?