I lit a match. The trembling light touched something old and dead. There was a skeleton before me, partly submerged in the dirt floor, as if the ground had quickly solidified around its white, flailing limbs.
Something stirred. Whatever it was, it was aware of me. It carefully slipped beneath the silence as the pulling dissipated into the air. I was so very close to my destination. My sister came into to my hand, her glittering laughter dancing behind the silence as I vanished into a solid patch of purest darkness, waiting.
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.
The fly-man’s eyes were dead, reflecting only the nullity of earthly pursuits. His life was just a symbol for a fruiting dream, where flies sow their children beneath the white soils of the dead. But I could sense him changing.
