A recurring dream, as vivid as life, portended the horror.
In the dream, I fly, a city of belonging laid out below me. Though remembered in my waking life, it is only vague fragments: a turquoise spire, a distant snow-capped mountain, ginkgo trees.
I explore each time for three days. (Or live with the denizens; I can’t really remember.) And then on the fourth day in the east, an onyx disk, as big as the sky and as deep as the sea, blots out the sun and its light.
The disk’s arrival is a foretold apocalypse. Awesome. Petrifying. The dark is like the sky ripped away. The only remaining light dimly emanates from a sentient mist that searches the streets for life.
When I realize everyone in the city is already dead, I wake, gasping, often in tears and soaked in sweat.
I’ve lived this dream life in tandem with my waking life, forgetting one while living out the other, thinking the two could never meet.
This night the onyx disk, that phantasmal termination to all things living, has infected, has bled through, fouling the real world with its wet, putrid mist. It has brought with it an emissary: a yellow thing, now outside my bedroom door.
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