Morning sunlight trickles through the open window, traveling on specks of dust.
It washes it all away.
He stumbles down the sidewalk, alone. And his heart slips out of his chest and slides onto the concrete.
There it imprints itself, growing outwards, its mottled colors sloughing over the sides of its shape.
The pavement cracks, noiselessly cleaving one side from the other.
A hole tears open.
His shadow, standing tall, stumbles, loses its footing, and slips in.
Eyes dart frantically, side to side. To side.
No one is there.
His street is empty.
He sees no one else. And no one else sees.
His legs liquefy. He wobbles.
Standing still, but now unsteady.
And the edge creeps closer.
As he peers down, he sees the crack widening.
And he sees The Nothing.
And it's waiting.
And it's smiling.
And it's truth.
It tugs at him.
The clouds move in front of the sun, and he feels awash in grayness.
It's cold. But he's sweating.
Tossing side to side, his eyes snap open.
Morning sunlight trickles through the windows. Gently, it washes it all away.
But outside, the sidewalk splits wide open.
I woke up in the middle of a dream, scared the world was too much for me. The sky was almost black, but the snow shone a bright blue in the moonlight.
We were sitting in the cathedral of Notre Dame, waiting for the priest. It amused the Crow's Eye to make them wait and pour. Against boredom, even the gods themselves struggle in vain.
God and whiskey got me where I am.
Too little of one, too much of the other.
You can tell a lot just by the tiniest change in the air. Winter comes to water as well as land, though there are no leaves to fall. The waves that were a bright, hard blue yesterday under a fading sky today are green, opaque, and cold. Looking deeply at the leaf, he saw clearly the presence of the sun and stars - without the sun, without light and warmth, the leaf could not exist.
"Hey! You can't be back here." I turn towards the voice. A cop, flashlight in hand, coming at me. I think about running. Even at my age, even after all this time, my first instinct is to run.
"A story, a monogatori, is not something you create. It is something that you pull out of yourself. The story is already there, inside you. You can't make it, you can only bring it out.... You have to believe you have the ability to tell the story, to strike the vein of water, to make the pieces of the puzzle fit together. Without that confidence, you can't go anywhere.... I believe in the power of the story. I believe in the power of the story to arouse something in our spirits, in our minds - something that has been handed down to use from ancient times."