In the dreaming, time was a wheel that never turned the whole way, always forgetting its place and starting over.

In the dreaming, I caught the liquid sky poured down from the moon, and drank the coolness of night.

In the dreaming, I moved not at all, and instead, the whole world passed by me as if it were in a terrible rush.

In the dreaming, I saw so far I could spy the beginning of the universe, where there was not but infinite potential.

In the dreaming, I thought I heard death calling me, drawing me to the edge of something I couldn’t let go of.

In the dreaming, I journeyed to the end of thought, and poked my hand into oblivion, the blank of nothing.

In the dreaming, death was a ferryman who oared into the mists, mists deeper and older than dreaming’s dreaming.