Transcript of the fever dream:

At the edge of reason, a number whispered. It was small, and oddly sincere.

79. It tasted like 2AM and cough syrup and the bright sting of giggles.

Later, it multiplied itself into a chorus: 222222222. A ridiculous army of twos.

Now, the final whisper: 111. Simple. Honest. Collapsing back into something soft.

The pattern repeats if you stare long enough. Or maybe it's just you blinking.