But enough of dead flies, as there is something else I must relate to you. I had a dream last night. It was more powerful than any that came before it. Even more important is that ever since the dream I can now feel a compulsion—a delicate tugging that seems intent on taking me . . . somewhere.
I was one of countless wolves. We were silent, breathing warm fog into a cold, black sky. We were waiting. We were starving. Suddenly, something was among us, in us. It entered us through the gates of our hunger, drawing us together, building a single ravening void out of the individual starving spaces we encompassed, until we all shared the same endless hunger. It was through this unified condition that the presence became us. Its memories raced through us like surging lightning, as its mind slowly surfaced from without our one great bottomless stomach. The entity began to compose our thoughts, weaving them together into a single and terrible storm of awareness. And when I was all but lost within its pounding rhythms, I glimpsed the nature of the thing I was becoming—I was as old as desire, taller than fear, colder than death; my voice was a sudden interrupted breath, and my name was the icy silence of conscience. I rose from the freezing earth as the sum of wolves, and moved into the shivering cities of man, striding into thick, warm crowds of terrified humanity. The air became so heavy with screams, I wondered if the world would ever breathe again.
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