A sunny, hazy Sunday afternoon. A stretching meadow, a light breeze lightly parting the strands of grass back and forth. Silence. You lie between the daffodils, arms spread, face to the sky. Like those snow angels you used to make as a small kid- those times, so far away. The air smells like soft mulch and mildew, a trace of hanging mist in the air. Eyes closed, unmoving, the warmth of the rays basking your skin, enveloping you in tendrils of light and heat. The cool dirt hugging your back, the whispers of earth and dust a promise, a promise for a better place and for a better time.
A long stretching hallway, converging into nothing, lit only dimly by dark blue lights, hanging heavy in the air. Doors without handles, bleach white into the gray walls. Somewhere in the walls a little boy is singing. Your footsteps make no sound as they pass over the smooth white floor. The voices echo endlessly up and down. Every step is the same, and under the dark fluorescent lights your thoughts dim and flicker, they join the chorus, the incoherent prayer of something hidden in the shadows calling for more, for a way out.
Darkness, a quiet silent peace. Far away in the distance lights are flickering, blinking shards of life placid and indifferent. The cool chill travels down flesh like pinpricks snaking into the bones and veins. Frost spreads beneath the fingertips and cobwebs through your system. You breathe out thin tendrils of warmth, floating, flying, unmoving in the vast emptiness. You close your eyes and smile.
Some dreams you don’t want to wake up from. And some dreams you simply can’t.