on 
on 1.1.01
Everything on the Holodeck takes place in, shall we say, a parallel universe, or a web of multiple parallel universes. This time (you've been here before) imagine if you will that you are Frank Figurski against a black, black background, with perfect yellow lines going out parallel from under your feet in all directions, going straight towards their respective vanishing points beyond the cubical horizon at the edge of the floor, where the lines go vertical up up up on all sides and rejoin to form the ceiling, also black with yellow lines. It is like being inside a giant Rice Chex square at night with a big yellow harvest moon casting a glow between the lines. You've never before seen the Holodeck Grid first-hand, this 3-D mime's box, barren of images, projectors off. How can you be sure this isn't just another holo-program that is the absence of programming? No characters, no setting, no artifacts. A blank slate, you, yes you Figurski, in the Rice Chex void, your mind racing, your senses on Yellow Alert for the tiniest crunching sensation that might indicate the approach of some Cosmic Jaws. There is no perceptible movement of air, yet you feel a pressure all around you that is almost like sound. If you listen very hard there's a faint mechanical whooshing and whirring which could be your own ear-canal pressure or perhaps capillary action in your brain. Even the kinesthetic sense, the relationship of your body parts to one another, fades in here in this abstract realm, fades incrementally like the loss in subtlety of flavor from Rice Chex to Corn Chex to Wheat Chex. Just now, right there, you can tell you've taken a step only because the yellow lines disappear and reappear in the shape of a moving leg, as if the whole grid is moving underneath you. "Step," "step." The entire gridwork cube seems to relocate instantly, maintaining a constant size and shape, with you always in the center. You in the center! And you and you and you and you, you pass a hairy hand across your face, and now you're really coming on to the acid because a hundred hands, a thousand hands in a slow-motion card-flipping Mixed Chex blur, go by and by and by, will they ever stop.
