I was a small mouse, it always happened this way. The ears, the whiskers. I felt small, furry, lost. There was nothing around me, a vast empty space of which I was the centre, the nexus where otherwise was nothing.
A mouse, why a mouse. Dreams got weird sometimes but I was always usually myself, or at least something indistinguishable from myself. This time the sensation of being a mouse was distinct, irrefutable.
I ran, spindly weak legs rolling me forward, the exertion only making me feel more out of place in the vacuum. I was moving, around me nothing changed. I ran faster, finding some greater energy somewhere inside my mouse body and all it achieved was to make my body grow warmer.
I changed direction, following a zigzag through the emptiness, terrified of missing something. This maze did not have walls, nothing to stop me, nothing to guide me. Soon my mouse legs grew tired and I stopped.
So my mouse mind pondered my situation, as the mouse body stood still. It grew cold while I sent strands of weak thought through the empty world, trying to imagine a map of what it might be, what rules it might follow.
Time passed and the cold grew sharper, deeper. I had to move, no time to think.