It did not lift its head and look at me; it did not speak.

        Leave from here and walk across the field, along the path tramped in the grass, the way of which is littered with broken mirrors, broken glass, toy blocks, tiny figurines, and half-burned pages, printed with columns like newspaper or bible.
        I see a massive shape ahead of me lumbering, leading the way. Follow it through trees to the open area of a crater-like lake. Upon the bank the water laps the shore, hypnotic splash a greeting: welcome back.

        Shapes of light shine on surface. Profusion of reeds in the liquid mirror, thrusting through
like dead spires. Museum went under the flood; a storm came and passed. It begins to get dark with the onset of night, a subtle descent.
        A convoy of cushions floats toward the beach like lily-pads. Riding the current, rippling waves bring them near. The last thing I see before the sun drops from sight completely is a pale bald pate rising from the depths.

        Then in darkness, a dozen more bald heads break surface. I try to see into the murk from which they emerged, and dive in instead. Immediately lost amid swarming bubbles, then swimming through corridors with arched dome ceilings.
        I swim up a hole in the ceiling and emerge from a well in the woods. The burned remains of a stucco house nearby, surrounded by dead grass and encroaching trees, the white walls scorched like melted plastic. I peek through a hole and see a dentist's office inside. A woman sits there spinning a globe and warning a young man about the getters (gonna getcha).

        Road curves around the veil’s bend. Follow the path through the trees. Air swooping with bugs, demented psychopaths reincarnated, buzzing madly. Fucking light bulbs in the ass, jagged esophagus smashed up inside. Pieces of reality still reflected, revealed by their placement.

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        Tainted swath of fabric stretched across the way, soiled satin shroud. Corpse buried facedown did find a way out. Chewed holes through and keep digging – strive toward the light. Never reach the bottom if you stop.
        Go left. Ascend the steps, creaking under your feet. Knock three times then open the door and enter. Dine with the people at the table in the amber saffron glow. Sit and drink the new wine, then depart again, back outside into the gently falling snow.
        Back into the trees. The snow becomes a rain of crimson droplets and the candy-flip messiah beside you. Walk through the trees leaves dense caress and branches scratching.
        At the clearing with the stones and mounds, a steel door leading into the earth. Pull it open and descend. Down in the green room is where they conduct the interrogations.
        Ugly stairwell in the typical place. Scary whore with staring corpse eyes. The hotel is a building that has many rooms. Windows conceal the rooms within. Remember there upon the hill with the wispy silver grass underfoot and the orange and purple sky all around, such a splendid evening, sailor’s delight.
        Climb the side of the old house to the attic room with the mattress and strip of insulation hanging down like a mottled tongue. Rusty needle with shoelace and empty glass bottles. Comfort is a mystery. Don’t go through that door again. You have been here all along, just waiting to realize. This is it: end of the line.
        And then there they are, emerging from the spaces between, pale and listless, without permanent shape. Bruises blossom and subside. Wearing the skin wrong, bones reveal the true shape. Razorblade unzips the interlocking cells.
        They open their mouths to speak and now the air fills with the buzzing of flies.