We were out for a photo shoot on a walkway that passed by a back alley. The sun was setting and we were quickly losing our moment for a good photo. I tried to look for a good angle for a shot of the stained glass windows across from us.

My friend was pushing a wheelchair down the road to pick my dad up. We were getting ready to head to lunch.

We were taking a break in between shots for a short film we were making. We were already dressed in magical girl costumes when someone in a Kyubey mask popped their head out from the top of the overhang to inform us about the next shoot. My mom called me to ask if I knew the password to one of her many safes. I told her that I had no idea and suggested that she use one that had phone app verification.

My high school was now equipped with huge aquariums that went from the floor to the ceiling in a laboratory the size of a gymnasium. “This is a school…”, I thought to myself in disbelief. Apparently they were studying thalassophobia, or the fear of oceans. I walked outside with a friend to find ourselves at a dock during a rainstorm. We talked about different kinds of “scary” water and we stepped onto a boat that was heavily rocking with the waves.

I was watching someone play as a Russian minor in EU4. He said felt that the early game was boring and seemed to form Russia rather trivially. The game was now a giant wok of stir fry and I threw in a large slab of marinated beef along with a random assortment of condiments. He got up from his chair angrily as I kept making a mess of the place. I told him that the country tags were probably mixed up and therefore the save file was likely also corrupted - making him lose hours of progress. This absolutely infuriated him as I ran to the front door of the flat and down the stairwell.

We were sitting around a dining table on the second floor. It was still light out and earlier we had lifted someone in through the window. I riffed through one of the poetry zines that was on the table until I spotted a page that seemed familiar. It was titled “Cut Stones” but the author’s name wasn’t on the page. I flipped to the inside cover and scanned through the list of contributors until I spotted a friend’s name with an extra diacritic. I looked at the front cover which credited the compilation to someone with the last name Zinvado. My aunt started talking about how their parking spot wasn’t big enough for a “Zinvado” car. There was a sinking hollow feeling in my chest.

We were checking out the new campus which for some reason had an archeological dig site. The partly exposed artifacts had stickers with QR codes that led to old websites.

News had broken that a torrent of a never-before-seen adaptation of Haruhi had dropped on Nyaa. It was a stage play from 2004.

I was hanging out with some friends and they were gossiping about some classmates from high school.

My parents and I had just landed in a European country and we needed to get to the Airbnb. We walked out of the arrivals area and got a taxi. It was starting to get dark out. After about 20 minutes we had arrived at the house and unloaded our luggage. The house had an antique decor with lots of wood furnishing and dark red carpets. I lifted my suitcase up to a room on the second floor before coming back down