Sometimes I muck around a bit, sad tosser I am, with 1990s graphics from Silent Hill, using the theme for a fix.
I had a dream once that between five hours of sleep and wake, I was by the side of an immense pool. It was misty, sick in a way already dead that was comfortable. For example, I went to the pub (Irish, naval) and encountered fifty to sixty half-ghouls who were fully undead by the time I left. It was that easy. Flee at the right time
and you will enter a delirious lordly room with an inappropriately large bed in the middle: the demon lord of the manor’s, or an archon’s pre-fallen crèche delivered to it by YHWH. I couldn’t tell. I just made my way through the five hundred metre corridor of chess floor into a corpse haunted sky about a castle.
Not much is left that remains in memory. I saw heads and lightning bolts, green bright teeth, a man and a cassowary. But, at the end of the thing, it was obvious that something was amiss. I dearly wanted, when I arose, I guess, to be a horror game protagonist –fog, grief, and all,
even Pyramid Head – because that would give, that would let, some foreign part of living into the world, a world of death.