Monday, 5 August 2013


I dreamt I was speaking to Bob. He looked good, better than I remembered; he was leaning back against the white surface again, and this time I knew it for what it was. Fungus. He kept reaching back with his left arm, into a hole from which he'd pull handfuls of the fibrous white matter. As we talked, he'd stuff it into his mouth, swallowing without chewing. At first, I stared at the stuff he was eating in fascination. But then I started to see things in it, and my stomach turned, and I couldn't look any more.

We talked. Bob talked; I couldn't reply. He said the storm that'd been building was almost here. He said I'd face five challenges, and the outcome would decide the future. He said to have faith, and stay the course, that he'd help me.

A huge, dark shadow passed over us, as if something gigantic had blotted out the sun. I couldn't look up; Bob glanced up, unmoved. Told me not to worry. The storm would pass.

I drifted slowly out of sleep. I was standing, facing a small patch of fungi half a mile from the camp. My bare feet were muddy, and I was shivering. The walk back to the camp took twenty minutes. No one had noticed I was gone.

No change in the stars.

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