The rail stations were dead, flowing like bees stung from honeysuckle. The people hung back and watched the ocean, animals flew in and out of focus. The time had come. Yet king dogs never grow old - they stay young and fit, and someday they might come to the beach and have a few drinks, a few laughs, and get on with it. But not now. The time had come; we all knew it. But who would go first?
Wednesday, February 22, 2012
Hand of God
Another image from my dream. A white hand. Reaching up towards me. Trying to grab me. The hand of God or perhaps the hand of some dead thing, waiting for the moment to grip me tight and pull me down into the cold, hard earth and hold me there while I scream and scream and scream.
So, in conclusion: I'm staying away from white hands. Thank you.
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