You're standing at the gapping mouth of a cave. Behind you, the sullen stone faces of cliffs, writhing in columns toward the stare of a blank sky.
There is a dull glow, like slow breath, coming from the cave. The open palm of this small valley seems to be all that exists.
You’re not sure how you got here. There’s no path behind you. “Is this still the world?” you ask yourself.
“Am I still a self, that I should being asking questions to?” You sigh, and roll your eyes at, yourself.
Letters, “l i m b o,” etched reluctantly in mangled stone, stumble across a mantle above the cave.
“Ha, a mustache” you snicker to yourself. Your resignation to the strangeness of your current position startles you...
A labored whisper. From inside, you think. “Uh, what?” you whisper back. Nothing.
After standing rigid for - how long? a few minutes? hours? - you suppose there’s really nothing else to do except, move…
So you move.