Dream Sequence 11: The Journey
There is nothing here. Nothing unless you notice the windmill, which is a gear that has fallen from the sky. Why does silence always sounds like distant rain?
Don't prepare for an acid bath. Nothing happens here. Except when the child runs by in tattered overalls, chased by something still stuck in the briars. If you see him, don't blink. Or he'll stop bleeding. Or he'll dissolve into dandelion particles. Or he'll exhale a virus that hardens the clouds into cement. The same rule applies to anyone you meet, not that you'll meet anyone but yourself. [Not an unimportant proposition.]
These are footprints. These are craters awaiting their meteors. These are hollowed logs and suitcases. This ravine is what happens when you take a moment to breathe.
The end destination – there isn't one. [No exceptions.] But there is a dumpster three miles to the north brimming with compasses and canteens. Maybe enough boards and nails for a boat (if you anticipate an ocean.)
Since you're reading this note, others must have dropped it and turned back. One step forward and wind arrives to restart the machine, which deafens you. This does not imply that your words are useless.
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