There is fog in the graveyard, fog so thick I can't see but a few feet in front of me. The headstones are mossy and crumbling, waypoints for the dead. My feet sink into soft earth, and with every step I smell the ripeness of decay. Something calls out in the night, something that sounds like a loon, a wailing woman's scream. I don't know why I am here, but I have a purpose. The mausoleum rises out of the gloom like a heathen monument, strange creatures wriggling on its non-euclidean geometry. I place my hand on the door and it opens, revealing a deep, dank darkness. I walk down the steps which wind and wind into the subterranean depths of the world. The staircase opens into a chamber where hooded figures move around the body of a young woman, beautiful, with pale skin. The torch light flickers, causing their shadows to grow enormous. I don't look into their faces; I know not to. I approach the woman and feel her skin. It is clammy and cold. "You know what must be done," says a voice. It seems her fate has been preordained.
...
A summer's day, in a small town
I walk down quaint streets, watching the traffic ebb and flow lazily like the waters of the river. A dilapidated building with broken windows and scorched sides beckons to me. Its parking lot is full of green glass, sharp shards that cut into my feet. I look down and realize that I have no shoes. A degenerate man with food in his beard makes himself known with his laughter. He sits beneath the overhang of the building eating a hot dog covered in mold. A stink wafts up from the nearby river, a healthy, fetid rot. "What do you want?" I ask, standing a few feet away, my feet bleeding. He shows me the hot dog and belches. He seems to be clad in trash bags and newspapers. His eyes motion toward the building but he does not move. Through the broken windows I see an orange glow, artificially bright. The degenerate chews down the hot dog like it is the most delicious thing in the world.
...
I wake up in a laundry room, surrounded by dirty clothing. Through the double doors I come into a bar. There are only a few people here, and every one seems to be missing a limb. A man with a hook for a hand greets me by spitting in my face. A guitar is thrust into my arms, and I am forced onto a stage. They scream and demand that I play for them. All they want to hear is "The Midnight Rider."
...
A Monday; I can tell by the ache in my bones
The garbage man comes and picks up the garbage. I read my newspaper on the porch, a pipe in my mouth, the family dog moving his bowels in the neighbor's yard. The paper says that the Japanese have attacked Pearl Harbor, but I flip to the funny pages. My wife comes out and fetches me for breakfast. On the table is a plate of sausages, biscuits, and scrambled eggs. My son sits down, a child, and I watch as he greedily consumes his meal. "He's getting big," says my wife. "It's almost time." I nod my head and smile, but I do not know what she means.
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