|work| | Erosland

The point was that you showed up.

First, you wander through . But here, the mirrors don’t show your face. They show your potential. In one reflection, you’re holding hands on a beach at sunset. In another, you’re crying into a pint of ice cream. In the third, you’re walking away without looking back. The funhouse isn't fun. It’s existential. You leave with more questions than you arrived with, mostly: Which version of me is the real one?

There is a place on the map that doesn’t exist. You won’t find it on Google Earth. The highway signs don’t list it. But if you’ve ever been ghosted at 2 AM, or kissed someone in a photobooth, or felt your stomach drop not from a rollercoaster but from the brush of a hand on the back of your neck—you’ve bought a ticket. erosland

Do try the . It’s salty. It’s twisted. You’ll break off a piece for the person next to you, but they’ll probably be looking at their phone. You eat the whole thing yourself and pretend you meant to.

Then there’s . It’s a dark water ride. You sit alone in a swan boat that’s seen better days (one eye is missing). The tunnel is cold. The walls project old text messages, blurry photos, the scent of a perfume you can no longer remember. It’s a haunted house for the heart. You don’t scream. You just sit quietly, letting the water carry you toward an exit that looks exactly like the entrance. The point was that you showed up

See you in line for the bumper cars. (They’re brutal .) Erosland is open 24/7. Location: right between your chest and your stomach. Enter at your own risk.

So, have you bought your ticket yet? Don't worry about the price. You’ve already paid it a thousand times over in daydreams and late-night confessions. They show your potential

Don't eat the cotton candy. It tastes like the first three months of a relationship—sweet, airy, dissolves on your tongue into nothing, and leaves you sticky and unsatisfied.