The Gods stand aside dispassionately and observe. Having been poisoned for centuries, they are incapable of action. They have not even the strength for emotion.
The hard, physical world floats around me, like the dreams, like those all encompassing dreams. The hallway outside my bedroom is obscured by itself. I follow known directions, trusting my mental map of my house. Looking down the front of my body is like looking down an endless cliff. Every step feels like I am plunging myself to my death. I find the phone and hold it to my ear. I’m not sure if my arms reach to my ear; the mouthpiece by my face is so far away. I hope she can hear me over this distance.
The distant voice echoes throughout the house. The Daimon hisses in reply. The phone by my face is at the bottom of an endless slope. I have got to shout so she can hear me from the top.
I know what to answer, I just cannot say it. The words fly out of my skull, but cannot penetrate the sheets of reality that keep dropping in front of me, tearing apart, only to reveal more illusory reality beneath.
Paradise was never lost.
Truth is; we never left
In fact, I have dreamt this world into being and am terrified I’ll never awake.
The sky is blazing in the death of the last day. I am in a field filled with death escaping the city. Behind me is a flowing unreality that is transforming the surrounding landscape like liquid floating weightless in space. I stop and stand forlorn in a wasteland of forlorn humanity. I know in this dream what lies behind this transformation of reality, that I have known it would happen, but I will awaken wondering.
Dimensions are near impossible to judge, for matter itself is in constant flux. I feel freed by this change. I am somehow adjusted to the dissolution in a way I can not explain as much as intuit. I move distant sights toward me, I am not walking, not moving, not still. Not me.
Distant, imminent, immobile, on a hill one moment, flailing in midair the next, is a dancing human figure. It remains in the same space as the surroundings change around it. Dancing, it appears, in apparent joy of glorious victory. I pull the vision closer to understand. As we converge, I can hear a hollow shriek issuing from it. There is something chilling about the call of the dancer, like what one might imagine the dead would sound in their desiccating desire for continued physicality. This cry is devoid of passion and the timbre of living flesh.
When I am next to the figure I realize the sounds are not coming from its throat.