Bitterroot Valley and in this infinite space, dear, i can hardly feel time

he's all but lost track of time, the way it bends and folds around him like slow-falling sap, like thick lethargic poison. there is no sense of self or world in this place, no swarms of thought like wasps burrowing through his skull to leave their vile spawn. the earth dips slowly beneath him, splits and swallows him, and he's suffocating —
ah, gregory. he takes a breath, motionless for several beats, then lifts his head just barely to take in the sight of him. "restless, are we," he responds lazily, words slurred, enjoying their little game of greetings. he yawns, shifts. "such a pretty little bird, hopping about with your broken wing. you should know better than to consort with snakes."