You took your mobile phone to bed. Maybe some adorable puppy videos and cat memes will keep you distracted. You watch a very pointless video in which a puppy wearing a party hat looks absurdly cute while sneaking food off the dining room table. Before you know it, you've fallen asleep.

Your dreams are troubled. You toss and turn, but at least you're asleep. In your IKEA bed, you have a reasonably comfortable mattress. Perhaps your partner, your cat, or your dog usually sleep with you. For whatever reasons, they are not here tonight. You toss and turn on a bed you had trouble putting together by yourself a few months ago.

The lights in the room flicker. It takes more than a few times for this to wake you because once you are out, you're out. Groaning, your bleary eyes open and are treated to the bright and cheerfully grinning sight of a person out of that ridiculous "Plato and Aristotle and Their Buddies" painting. You remember what it looks like, but you don't remember the name because this incandescent figure decided to wake you up at stupid o'clock.

You groan.

"Now what? Can you come back later? I don't want what you are selling." You throw your arm over your eyes and turn in the bed, away from the silent figure.

The figure tut-tuts and draws closer to where you are sleeping. Standing right in front of the bed, where you turned to avoid them, they sigh with the sadness of every disappointed parent in the history of the world. It does get your attention, though, because you remember your parents' sighs every time you visit them on a holiday. You open one eye, expectant.

On closer inspection, while the figure is glowing brighter than an influencer who finally went viral, they are not exactly what you first thought. Androgynous in appearance, they don't possess that beard that the Ancient Greeks always sported. Their hair is a long, dark shade, and it falls to their shoulders in curls. Their robe curtains around them in an elegant way that conceals their frame. Holding a very large and dusty-looking tome in their arms, they finally speak.

"The wealth of knowledge is already there. You already know who I am. You just don't know that you know," they intone. You groan again.

"Why? Why bother me when I am trying to sleep? I have to get up in the morning tomorrow. I mean, really!" you huff, but you are already invested, for better or worse.

The figure holds out a pallid hand, shining brightly in a very obnoxious way. You grunt and get out of bed, perhaps even creaking a little. You take the Spirit's hand. You already know this is the spirit who got the rideshare. They don't really have to say anything to that effect.

"Come, and we will speak about Philosophia and those who followed her through the ages. Or rather, we will see her at work." You grasp the hand of the Spirit. You are rendered unconscious as the Spirit bonks you over the head with the tome. Before you know it, you're in a crowded marketplace.

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People are selling random things, from food to jewelry to goats. There is a certain stench, but you ignore it. Your eyes alight on two men, one older than the other. The older one appears to be lecturing the other. Across the way, you see a large barrel. Thrown to its side, another man reclines inside of the cask. He seems fixated on the two as well.

"But you know, on the nature of existence..." the younger man ventures tentatively. But the older man tsks him, clucking his tongue.

"My dear Aristotle, it is only about the forms. Remember the forms and the rest will follow." The younger man doesn't seem to look convinced.

"I'll show you a form, all right!" announces the barrel guy, clasping his hands together above his head. He uncovers one hand to reveal an offensive gesture. Before you can question this, the Spirit bonks you over the head again.

❄️

It's dim by the light of candles. Several veiled women in thick black woolen habits wander about in silence. You can hear a woman's muffled voice behind a heavy wooden door. Footsteps echo. The Spirit gestures to the door. You both walk right through it. You hold back a gasp as an older woman, clutching her forehead, lectures a man who could only be the Pope.

Once more, you are clunked over the head with the thick and impressively annoying tome.

❄️

You enter a drafty but elegant palace. The swish of more skirts than you've ever seen anyone wear in your life intrigues you. With the Spirit, you follow a frenetic woman who sits down at her desk, scribbling away furiously in thought and intention. It's clear she's loaded, as she snaps her ringed fingers impatiently after she blows on the ink and shakes the paper, sealing it. A servant in gilded livery bows as he enters the room.

"See this goes to Monsieur Descartes," she commands, a subtle smile playing upon her lips as the servant quickly exits the study. You're wrapped up in her whole aesthetic and a little confused, so you don't see the book which comes down once more upon your face.

❄️

A diminutive man hurries down a rather boring street in a small village. He's carrying a huge sheaf of papers in his hand, and he grips them tightly in both hands, as though holding on for dear life. Middle aged, there is a sort of joy that dances in his eyes, as though he is about to start a revolution with this huge manuscript.

He enters the hallowed doors of an already-ancient university, and you and the Spirit once more follow. It's easy when you're being guided by a paranormal being, really.

The man, his rather plain wig nearly falling off his head, enters a room at the end of a long hallway. He slaps the manuscript down on the desk of a bigwig you don't recognize. Standing tall, he proudly proclaims, "I have finally woken from my dogmatic slumber!"

"No, no, no!" you whisper. You want to see more, but you know what is about to happen. Again, bonk and out.

❄️

It is a long journey, with you and the Spirit. You stumble into the strangest places: cities on the verge of revolution, palaces resplendent, salons run by smiling courtesans, the side of a street in Alexandria before the library burns, corners of ancient dynasties filled with war and questions. Each journey ends with a slap on the head. Oddly enough, it doesn't really hurt. You're surprised you don't have a lump by now.

❄️

One last visit. You can tell it's the last because the Spirit smiles at you in the most off-putting way.

It's raining miserably. The two of you hop into a bland and bourgeoise building on the side of the street. It's easy enough to mount the stairs and walk through a very closed door. A proud woman with a coy smile shakes her head as a man kneels before her feet. He has the most outrageous moustache and you feel a little sad for him.

"No, I will not marry you, Herr Nietzsche," the woman speaks, stern but not completely unkind. Bitter tears fall from the man's eyes. Neatly dressed but unkempt, he bears the appearance of one torn apart and bereft.

"But..." She will allow no other words, and she opens the door you just walked through, walking through you in the process. The man remains there, kneeling by a fireplace that is running out of light and warmth.

You back away, because you see it happening. The Spirit laughs melodically as they lift that heavy, heavy tome over your head. It's unavoidable, inevitable. You can see it coming but you can't stop it.

And there you are again in your moderately comfortable IKEA bed. The Spirit stands nearby, dusting off the cover of that large book. You find yourself oddly thinking about a meme, "I like big books and I cannot lie." You decide you much prefer paperbacks from now on, that are not big.

"Look for the second of my kind," the Spirit intones. "I was only the first. You will be visited by two more, the Present and the Future. When the clock strikes one, expect the second."

You don't really know what to say to this. You've been bashed over the head by a huge book over the past hour(?) or so. It's starting to get to you. You figure to yourself, This is a fever dream. I really should stop watching YouTube before bed.

You pull the covers over your head, right over, and close your eyes. The preternatural glow of the Spirit diminishes until, when you peek out from the covers, you are enshrouded in darkness once more. You reach for your phone. Your eyes adjust to the light. Meh, it's only 12:30 midnight. Grumpy and more than slightly disturbed, you re-cover your head.

Traumatized but tired, you return to sleep.