Sometimes he knew things just by touching his fingertips to the surface. Things about people in other rooms, a head turning away and the way someone looked at another, watching their hair glide by in the lamplight. He could read their conversations pass through their laughing lips, hear the clink of wine glasses on unseen tables.
It was maddening. He just wanted to focus, to hold onto something fierce and not let go, but the harder he pressed the more the visions came, viscous like a syrup of casual chatter gliding down his spine.

So he let go, turned away from the work at hand. Stared into the sky and wished he could see visions of things out there. At least they would be truly unknowable. At least out there the creatures would be different enough that the visions would be incomprehensible to him. He wanted to glide somewhere between spaces, just above and just below, be alone and empty inside, alone and yet.
Someone was talking to him, a chuckle, a reminder of the task at hand. A gentle nudge. He focused and pulled himself into the vision again, and heard the whir of machinery as the box on his neck started its work.
Information being sought, he was just a conduit, a tool for others. Passage on the next flight promised. Maybe out there. Maybe peace sometime, in a space between.

As a youth, I would often go hiking with my father and sister. He had custody on some weekends, and we would often just get out his worn book of trails and choose one at random. One wintry day we struck out to hike the mountains around chimney rock in North Carolina. There is an elevator in the mountain, up to a visitor center, which we took in order to hasten our jaunt. Well upon arriving at the trail we discovered that it was completely iced over, a possibility none of us had thought possible in those mostly mild southern mountains. We could not hike the icy mountain that day so we turned back to head towards our vehicle and seek some other distraction. As we headed to the elevator the power in the visitor center went out. So no elevator, and no hiking down the icy trails. A door was opened to a shaft in the mountain, a small tight space with a tightly wound spiral staircase descending into the darkness below. We were told all visitors should take the stairs down, regardless of the fact there was no light in there, regardless of the rust I could see on the top rails, regardless of it shaking and creaking under our weight. So down I go, spiraling into the darkness, on slabs of ancient metal slick with condensation and smaller than my feet. I know any misstep might be my last, as a tumble into those Stygian depths would certainly be fatal. So I grip the rails as hard as I can, feeling the whole structure wobble under the weight of so many people. Down and down we go, everyone silent in fear, the only sounds dripping water and shuffling of feet. It was complete and utter darkness, an eternity of it, just step after step, creaking and wobbling. Occasionally I would touch the hand of the person before or after me on the rail and recoil in fear. I knew others were around me, could hear their breathing, but something about touching a person in the dark on that hellish staircase terrorized me to the core. For surely the noises around me could no longer be made by people? And wouldn't a group of people have at least one person muttering, making jokes to stem the fear? No, these creatures in the mountain depths were too silent, too repetitive to be humans. I had somehow gone through a wrong door, into a nightmare realm of always walking down and turning, never seeing where I was going or where I was.
Until, at last, a murky grey appeared below us. With the light the humanity began to return to my companions. People began to make jokes, comfortable now with the hope that it was soon ending. But I know the truth. For a while in that subterrane shadow my fellow travelers were replaced with mindless beasts. That is not what scares me however, what scares me is thinking that perhaps I too had become something less than human for the duration of that abominable descent.