Crash, bash, mirrored headbutt, witches’ brew, a violent wager.
When you hurt yourself, it happens twice over…well, in syntax anyway. Maybe that’s why it’s so stupid. But what’s a lost puppy to do about it, especially when it’s all happening in a dream?
Displaced splinters of glass twinkle like broken stars. They’re all getting my face wrong, sending it in different directions across the room, through space.
And space is the place to be. There’s a disturbance in the seventy, but the planetarium is more or less immune. Purple light masquerading as gloom and eating all the shadows. Shadows that couldn’t be seen from an angle if they were there, because there isn’t a functional mirror anymore.
There’s more to see though: a little dog curled up on top of Neptune, thumping its tail against the stratosphere as it tries to wake up. Spectral fires, burnt survivors, death in Nevada, carnivorous Eden and the sadistic moonlight fetish: it’s all coming back now.