July 5th, 2010

Cerberus

This is my first dream since my revelation. I know things that nobody should. If the proper authorities should believe me--and believe me they should--I could bring that woman the posthumous justice she so sorely deserves in this life or perhaps afterlife i should say and maybe i should say deserved. She's a modern day Otzi, is she not? What tomb doth have more dignity a tomb of dead frost or a tomb so alive with frogmoths pulling themselves out of the earth and plunging themselves into the hot sticky mud waters alive with all matter alive or deceased from the microbes to the megafauna that still have yet to be found she hovered between them eyes wide with wonder seeing things none human has seen with their naked eyes

Frustratingly I know everything down to the hour but can't seem to remember her assailant's face I know everything about him from the way he used to call her her secretary to the way his movements seem to jerk like a puppet on a string tugged along by some cackling madman. If I could just recall

I'm digressing. I can't lose focus now. Not with my eye so close to the prize that my dark irises almost touch its needle's point. My dream:

I assume you know what it looks like when two mirrors reflect one another. How images overlap forever, how you can look one direction and see the back of your head. Imagine that. Imagine that but it's the floor and ceiling. And they are no mere illusions trapped behind glass. You stand there in a maze, the edges of your hair bristling against your double's. You reach up to touch her hair, grab her head in your cupped palm. You feel it. You feel your own hand touch your head. You feel the soles of your red rubber shoes pressing against your doubles'. You are walking on her, walking all over her, you are your own gravitational pull you are the core of the world looking up at the mantle, the crust, still all you.

You walk through the maze. You are certain it has been years. Years folding upon themselves to spell decades, weeks, centuries, days, millions of hours wasted here with only the repeating echo of your voice to keep you company.

You freeze. Turning your ear upward. Listening. The echo continues upward, up, up, up until it reaches a top you can't even begin to fathom. It bounces downward. It is not your own voice. You are having a conversation with a young boy and that young boy is mimicking your words not mockingly but you are teaching him language.

You talk. I can't remember the words. Like a friend whispering something to you in the dead of night.

You see him then. The endless copies of you aren't there anymore. Reflecting above and below yourself is a mess of wires, wires, overlapping on one another and creating rounded-off cones of machinery.

His name is Noah and he is a tattered corpse run through with all manner of technology. He speaks through a jaw wired shut. He has an umbilical cord, so literal in every sense of the word. His arms and head dangle uselessly down to where the ground should be. You know that this isn't what happened to him. It's simulacrum.

And maybe it is.

You watch as he tilts his neck to the right and a young blonde boy's head snaps, tears flesh and sprouts from where his jugular vein is.

And just as quickly as that leaf grew and matured, you see your own face follow suit.

Your glasses have been misinterpreted as buglike mandibles coming from the sides of your face.