When viewing the hypothesis through coded lens, the answer became apparent: not to walk down Toussaint Boulevard past midnight. There are villains lurking in shadowed entrances of closed convenience stores and hiding around rainy corners. Whoever breaches the boulevard’s silence by lacerating it with a wasp’s antennas, will fall in the middle of the street. The pavement sees the eyes in distress and phones 911. If the fall does not require medical attention, an ambulance will drive close by and splash a puddle into your face.

However, something deep down compelled me to walk down Toussaint Boulevard at half past one in the morning.

My binoculars surveyed the distance, and my eyes scanned each passerby. At the end of the boulevard, I crossed an empty road that gleamed black from the night’s drizzle and went into a Chinese restaurant. The host led me to the only available table where dance music played so loud that it overtook my skull.

Within a minute, I flew back to the boulevard.

The road looked different. It were as though I was walking into a tunnel, with pale pink lips as the entrance. I walked to the end of the flattened tongue where I fell for an indeterminate amount of time. Surrounding me were images of cartoon characters, goblins, witches and pop culture icons, talking to and debating with each other in response to each sensation that I felt.

I tried to find a way out, but it’s shapelessness left only more images and raucous debates.

Porky Pig responded to the feeling that my heart was beating out of my chest by pointing a rifle down a rabbit hole, announcing, “I’ve got you, you wackedy wabbit.” Bill Cosby tried to assuage things and said that I should eat a pudding pop. A mole-faced witch laughed hysterically. Scooby Doo’s Shaggy shouted, “Zoinks! What’s that stuck in my throat?” “It’s just a wacked-y wabbit. But wacky wabbit won’t be wackedy for very long.” Porky shot the rifle down the rabbit hole. A concerned intellectual, many levels up wondered aloud, “Is it okay to shoot that thing?” Five levels down a toddler on a bumper car said, “Ba-boom! Ba-boom! Ba-boom!” “That’s his heart, you know,” Cosby said. The intellectual asked, “How long can a heart run that fast?” Henry Ford smiled, “Man is an engine after all. So, forever, I suppose.” “The wackedy engine has to stop some time. The wackedy wabbit can’t go on forever.” On an animated plane, the rabbit lay dead. “I’m sorry wackedy wabbit. It was your heart, it was beating too fast.” “Zoinks! Maybe it was something in your throat?” “I suppose it doesn’t matter now,” the intellectual mused. Cosby said: “Let me ask you all a question. How are we all still here talking if he’s dead?”

It was at that moment that I darted over to the next street and turned on the television. There was extreme comfort in external sensation.

Now I understand why they said not to walk down Toussaint Boulevard after midnight.