Verity the Shibboleth

Verity the Shibboleth woke confused, nothing was familiar, not even herself. She was naked but for some reason, that did not bother her, in fact, that seemed right, although at the moment “right” seemed at best a nebulous notion. Somehow that seemed appropriate as that morning (she assumed it was morning but because of the haze she couldn’t be quite sure and what was morning anyway) everything was unclear, one of the consequences of remembering virtually nothing, or perhaps even absolutely nothing; she wondered whether there was a difference between remembering absolutely nothing and not remembering anything, then wondered if she had anything to remember.

She was standing but didn’t remember having stood although for some reason she felt she hadn’t always been standing, then wondered if it would be appropriate to do something other than stand naked in the mists that obscured everything. She wondered if…