Grandpa sat in his recliner, the dim glow of the television flickering across his wrinkled face. But it wasn’t the evening news that held his fascination—it was the thought of returning, rewinding, unraveling himself like an old cassette tape back to the beginning. He dreamed of soft, gelatinous limbs, of floating in warm darkness, of shrinking down into something unfinished, untouched by time. “Womb was the peak,” he muttered, sipping his lukewarm tea. The thought of curling back into a fetal state thrilled him in ways he could never quite explain. Age was a burden, but regression… regression was a delicious fantasy.
Reading the word hiatus makes me feel like I got waterboarded