It should be wrong to begin a story with a dream…
Streams of meteors, flowing westward and sinking, setting fire to all we know, and sending silt and mud and dust and people into the air, swirling above us in a cacophony of dark whirlwinds.
Floods, surging, pushing through, dragging all behind it, surrendered and battered and bashed.
The fields are liquified, and for every known thing sinking deep is a new, unknown thing, rising as if it owns the mud, and climbing out, seeing our world for the first time, and licking its lips.
And me, pinned, ineffectual and also unwilling to help, this spectacle is not my world, it is not real, and I refuse to…
…but I awaken and with time I come right and dust off the residue of the dancing darium, the cause of much internal mischief, and the most interesting use of my time to be discovered so far.
