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only feel the world congeal, ever-hardening for its absence
of liquefying dream.
The Crucifier, The Mad Mercenary, a nameless Wolf,
untold numbers of living nightmares, an entire village of
degenerate cannibals and their loping beasts, and the near-
legendary Black Molly Patience herself. All of them, my
beautiful bouquet of dead flowers, handpicked.
And now the Shepherd of Wolves would have me slay
what appeared to be the living embodiment of one of the
happiest, darkest myths known to me. Through it all, I had
only the reddest dreams to assure me of the righteousness of
my path. And while dreams have never misled me—despite
what the Queen of Cannibals may have suggested to the
contrary—I was growing more and more leery of nightmares
dripping with the skin of wolves.
After many more days of wandering, I finally came
upon a circle of trees, bent in stature and sallow of color,
completely denuded of their fall coats. Immediately, I
realized nightmares had routinely traveled through this
small, leafless space, and that some of the visions may
have become entangled within the grasping limbs, awaiting
picking like dark ephemeral fruits. It was plain to see that
if I was to receive a proper dream, it would be in this place,
though I had to be careful not to allow my excitement to
offset my fatigue.
As I entered the crooked circle, I could feel their cold
shadows playing across my skin, trying to find a handhold
upon my soul, to lift it from my flesh and use it to cover their
naked, emaciated frames. But my soul was anchored by
shadows far darker than theirs, and the mad grasping proved
futile. I was dreaming before I knew it.
I walked through a dimly lit hallway, passing creatures
whose shapes were too wild to describe even by their own
shadows. The darkness abandoned any attempt to represent
them—only confusion resided where should have fallen
some semblance of obstructed light. When I reached the
152 | Mark Anzalone