text: Off by the coast, to horizons unseen, I sit. I sit and ponder over my life, specters and visions flashing before my eyes, moving from the brisk greenery amid the rocks to the ocean, and from it, into the infinite constellations above. I can see my mother. Oh, mother. The sweet smile you once bore is a stoney figment, something never to be seen again. I do not even know your grave. No matter, soon I shall wake from this dream and continue my way, there is still so long to the village. &#x200B; The village is beyond the mountain, through these woods. Evergreen. As I walk, I can see the remnants of brawls with no discernable winners, they are only husks. The air is crisp, autumn is rolling across the countryside in the form of an amber-hued tidal wave, only less aggressive. The day is tolling by, yet I have made no progress. This pack is heavy, my legs are heavy, but I must continue onward. &#x200B; At the summit of the mountain, that insurmountable titan of yore, I stand and ponder, still. These rocks are large. They jut out for the legs, waiting to take you down the slope, to your death. I must be careful. The top of the mountain is in view, and my home shall soon rear its forgetful head with it, my destination marked. &#x200B; Now at the top, I can see everything of the world, and it of me. A life can seem so small, so insignificant in this scheme, almost as a fleeting breath in the wind. They are still there; their lights shine in their huts and the woods of my childhood are there as well. By tomorrow, I will have arrived at my destination. &#x200B; These trees, they seem so familiar, yet they are larger than before. They have grown to new heights in my absence. Shame. I shan’t ever climb one again. The path to the village is barren, the leaves have been beaten into the ground by footfalls of ages, and the path is clear. Soon, I can see them again. &#x200B; The Fletcher’s hut is first, but his children are not here. The hut is large, with wooden, creaky windows pieced together by nails. The children are not here. As I pass the hut, I can see someone in the window, but they are already gone. Strange. &#x200B; The other huts are just as I remember, although they lack the life they once had. No one is here now. The whistling wind gives way to the sound of shuffling inside the huts, but I dare not open one. I know not why. &#x200B; The square is also devoid of people. My hut is where it used to be, yet I do not want to go inside. I shall sit at the well in the square, to rest. These benches are time-worn and uncomfortable. Life returns to the village through an errant sheep from the street. They never came this close. Another one follows the first until a small flock is made complete. &#x200B; They stand by the well, looking idly at nothing, but something is not right. These sheep, they are strange. They do not bleat, nor do they graze, but their mouths move. One of them is closer to me than the others, and, as I look intently, I see something in its mouth. Worms? Something wormy is making its skin writhe, forcing its mouth open. They are not worms, but thin, black tendrils. They are writing eerily, almost as if to advance toward me. The well is making sounds. &#x200B; I stand up to view the well, inching closer as the sheep still gazes at me with its blackened eyes and writhing flesh. It stands there but does not move, only watching. The well is covered with a wooden lid, yet sound and air escape the crevices between stone and wood. I shall pull the cover off. &#x200B; Something is down there, writhing impossibly, in all directions. A cacophony of soft screeches is now made louder by the absence of the lid, and they are moving up the walls. I close the lid. &#x200B; This whole matter is quite unsettling, and I do not want to be here anymore. I shall retire to my hut for the night. The sheep are still at the well, in the distance, but they are slowly ambling down the way, toward me. Their eyes are no longer there, replaced by the same slick strands of blasphemy as inside their mouths. &#x200B; Between the strange sheep and the foreboding hut, I feel a twinge of fear, but I must be inside, for it shall soon be night, and I do not care to learn what else roams the streets at night. My tooth is aching, as if something is pulling at it.