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# **AL CHUM — *As The Point Of Cue*
C50 Narrative / Field Report / Dream-Log**
## **Side A — The Point Passes Through You**
**59 — ZEIT: *Time Is a Mirror We Forgot How to Use***
The tape begins with that blind shimmer: a mirrored second trying to remember its own reflection. A clock with no numbers rotates above a dry lake. Every seven rotations it coughs out a *cue-tone*, the kind used in obsolete broadcast systems to tell sleeping technicians to wake up.
But the technician is missing. Only their boots remain, filled with sand and instructions.
> *Instruction 1:* If you see your reflection looking away from you, report it to the Center for Disoriented.
> *Instruction 2:* If the mirror answers before you speak, surrender your name.
A thin animal made entirely of timestamps wanders across the horizon, eating every minute you aren’t using.
---
## **60 — [Redacted Slot: Missing from Shell Index]**
This section was erased by something patient. The oxide peeled itself from the tape and arranged into a tiny map of an airport that never existed. If you hold it to the light, gate numbers appear: **CUE-01**, **CUE-01**, **CUE-01**—every gate identical, every flight cancelled for reasons printed in a language made of unvoiced sighs.
A border officer with no face stamps your dream-passport anyway.
---
## **✦ 61 — Addendum: *Surreal Appendices from the Center for Disoriented***
From the official pamphlet, circa never:
> *The Center reminds all listeners that orientation is a privilege, not a guarantee.*
> *If you experience unauthorized directionality, please sit on the floor until gravity chooses you.*
Inside the appendix is a *fold-out*, showing a diagram no one can fold back correctly:
```
[GRAPH A1: VECTOR OF UNSETTLED HOURS]
hours↑ ╭───────────────◆ (point of cue)
12 ┤ │ /
10 ┤ │ /
8 ┤ │ /
6 ┤ │ /
4 ┤ │/
2 ┤──────◆────────────→ disorientation
early sleep late sleep
```
A handwritten note at the corner:
**“If the point of cue moves, follow it. If it stops, apologize.”**
---
## **62 — *Converging Note (Please Stop Ringing in Left Eye)***
The tone begins as a sinusoid, clean enough to sterilize thought. Then it finds the soft tissue behind your left eye and refuses to leave. A technician—possibly a ghost, possibly a future version of you making a polite mistake—tightens a dial labeled **RETINAL ALERT: DO NOT MAX**.
The ringing grows feathers.
The feathers remember you.
You do not remember them.
---
## **63 — *Calls Repeatedly, With Mouth Full of Fog***
Someone keeps calling from a number one digit too long to be real. When you answer, they speak in breath instead of words—fog folded into syllables, drifting out of the receiver like an uncommitted weather report.
A transcript of Call #41:
```
YOU: Hello?
CALLER: (fog pours out)
YOU: I can’t understand.
CALLER: (attempts speech—only vapor. A shape in the vapor resembles your
grandmother’s handwriting.)
YOU: Who are you?
CALLER: [long stormlike exhale] “stop… hanging… up…”
```
The call ends only when the phone melts into condensation.
---
## **64 — *Ionization Trails Across My Grandfather’s Heaven***
A slow-motion aurora forms at knee height. All colors are incorrect. Each ion streak spells out a family name you’ve forgotten. The sky has been lowered for maintenance; technicians walk across it casually, leaving muddy prints on the firmament.
Your grandfather appears, but only as a collection of his habits: the cough, the hat tilt, the way he mispronounced “satellite.”
He blesses you with static electricity.
A note in the margin:
```
[GRAPH B2: IONIZATION MEMORY DECAY]
memory↑ *
* *
* *
* *
0──────────────────→ time after dream
```
The curve always drops. No exceptions documented.
---
## **65 — *Collars of Obedience Hung from Airless Halos***
A corridor with no air sways like a spine underwater. Dozens of collars dangle from circular metal loops—halos stolen from saints who no longer needed them. Each collar whispers a different instruction:
* “Walk where footsteps haven’t been invented yet.”
* “Don’t breathe until the clock apologizes.”
* “Remember the dream that remembers you.”
One collar snaps shut on your shadow instead of your neck. Your shadow follows obediently, leaving you free but strangely unanchored.
---
## **66 — *All Nourishment Intervals Cancelled by Dream Authority***
The Dream Authority (est. 14 minutes ago) sends a decree:
> **“No feeding cycles allowed. Digestion is counter to narrative tension.”**
Your stomach attempts to protest, but its paperwork is incomplete. The Authority seizes your appetite and replaces it with a checklist:
1. Identify the angle from which hunger watches you.
2. Allow at least seven dreams to starve in your place.
3. Sign here using the hand you do not trust.
The page smells faintly of future fruit.
---
## **67 — *Commercial Fiction in My Sleep Packet***
A small foil packet arrives in the dream mail. Inside is a novella written in perfect marketing jargon, designed to be consumed subconsciously:
> *“In this season’s hottest unconscious narrative, a lone protagonist discovers that plot arcs are sold by weight, not length…”*
Every sentence ends with a tiny ad.
Every ad sells you back your own memories.
At the bottom of the packet:
```
[GRAPH C7: SLEEP PACKET ABSORPTION RATE]
absorption↑ ◇◇◇◇◆◆◆◆■■■■
time inside dream →
```
The novella dissolves.
Your dreams become sponsored.
---
## **End of Tape — The Point of Cue Has Moved
Completely unique cassette, numbered edition of 1.