Hood He fashions a hood from scraps of human flesh. But it is okay, he says, because his scraps were soul-less, seeded in the secrecy of a lab. Star Shifts Riddled with fearful anticipation we plot our paths either into the mysterious birth or the ever stretching fringe of the known. Red stars or blue stars are guiding lights.
Wonderful to be back. I was lost in a sea of hypnagogic imagery as pain pulled me in and out of dreams. An imploding compound eyeball. A braid of light wisps. Police pushing through my door. Up a steeply inclined string. A vibrating tangle of spectral shapes that nearly was a dream. Imladris? Whispers of moonlight slip through carven beams of a hallway unending. Drifting fluff of soul, aimless and ailing, I amble along. He calls a name that is mine and yet, not. I am a river. Voices are echoes, sacred harmonies so gently easing all the harm in me. A path of new moons and ritual fasts, of magic mantras and dream woven tasks is assigned to me. I agree. Finally there is rest beneath the stars, beside cascades, beyond dim and damned ever reaching hands.
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