Last night I dreamed of fire and stone and canyons of thorns growing in the desert, building from a primeval chaos unrequited in humanity. I was a man of import, a man of mortared destiny - eternal and knowing, unrelenting. In the chill of setting sun, I clothed myself in rope to hide my skin and humanity. Indecent. Irrevocable motion - I danced with a bull-whip taken from a cache of sanctified love. I snapped through bonfires and bayed at the moon.
It was visceral. Animal. "Torn, torn, torn." Crack! "Torn, torn, torn." Crack!
I woke in a heat sweat with burning in my eyes. Pupils dilated. I'd returned with a layer of hell in my hand. I will not let it go.