Cool psychic breeze floats past your nostrils. You inhale the savory feast and wonder where it comes from. Don't look too far. This is the dream matter; the stuff that makes up all that holy in your night time parades: humorous, frightening, exhilarating, euphoric, horrific. You float at a level of 4, toes brushing the tops of the dry, wild grasses and up onto the washed-out concrete, old and bleeding auburn rust. Clammy old people crown the area, waiting their turn at the dream world. They seek to enter it, forever more, rather than be eternally damned to an arbitrarily created religious station with no purpose.
The true grit you can taste. It blows into the cracked and amorphous window glass with orange light filtering through. At this time you can see the fluid glass moving. The ancient life blood seeps slowly through the rotted timber walls, the wind whistles, "We are the World," through the eaves. Only Kenny Loggins' voice comes through clearly. The light flickers at microwave frequency, but this time, ceases to put you in the dream seizure. You take it in, you smell robust mold and cheer yourself on one last time. Your extremities begin to pulse, each pulse stronger and more violent than the last. Spider shadows are cast on the opposing wall, the light indicating the particulates that overcome you. Auras, in their final appeal to their handlers, fuse together to give everyone the idea of one final melting. The purple lens collapses over your eyes, revealing, at last the hidden truth that you sought all along.
