If he could describe it in one word, it would be magical.
It puzzled him, really, how slow humans were, moving and talking like bumbling giants. And while he definitely hadn’t enjoyed being rudely snatched out of his own home, he appreciated the chance to explore the science of humanism.
Before he knew it, he was exposed to light and color, and he was being tossed into the air. It was as if he were floating, a lone persona in a molasses-like world.
He eyed the meter stick, propped up against a nearby wall, as he rose, wondering how far he’d be able to fly; and then he was spinning, heels over head. He was an astronaut, drifting downwards. If he’d been moving like the humans did, the experience would’ve been terrifying, but he took in the beauty of it all, greens and browns and the wood of a white meter stick and the dark, warm recesses of a human palm.
And that was the story he told his children and his grandchildren, about being a tiny earth explorer in the course of a mere few seconds.
And it was magical.