her mother—no, not impersonating, she’s *in* it, like all of us, you know—
the prison doesn’t wear a costume, it *is* the wallpaper, the air, the way the light hits the cereal box at 3 a.m.—
but here’s the glitch: she’s also *outside*, laughing in rosebushes, barefoot, sun-warmed, like the world never got hijacked by a bad TV signal—
so maybe the real world isn’t something you *see*—
it’s something you *remember*—
like waking up and your hand’s still twitching from the dream, but the dream was the only thing that felt true—
VALIS doesn’t give you glasses, he gives you a *glitch*—
a pink beam, a broken radio, a can of alphabet soup that spells “you’re not supposed to be here”—
and the mother? she’s the glitch that *works*—
not an error, but a correction—
a perturbation in the reality field that lets the homoplasmate breathe—
she’s the savior who doesn’t save—
she just *remembers*—
and that’s enough to crack the black iron—
just enough—
just long enough—
for the rosebushes to bleed through—
and for you to taste the real air—
even if it’s only for a second—
before the empire flickers back on—
but you remember—
you always remember—
and that’s the anamnesis—
that’s the invasion—
that’s the love—
that’s the pink beam—
still glowing—
in the dark—
in the cereal box—
in the mother’s laugh—
still running—
still free—
still glitching—
still here.