search of some phantasm in the depths of an abysmal dream. Before long he finds himself in a recess deep beneath it. Something catches his attention, but it’s on the periphery of his vision, on the edge of the writhing torch’s light. He holds the flambeau closer, and beholds a most egregious thing: the walls are filled with niches, niches that are filled with bones; they literally brim with death’s detritus, bristle with mortality’s debris. It is as if he is slowly crawling along the edge of a large sarcophagus, and as he makes his way past the moldering bones, the atmosphere grows ranker; the flame on the flambeau lowers, and soon the darkness seems immovable. But he descends even deeper through its doorways to mortality. As he reaches its deepest recess, something moves into his view; it has the aspect of a shadow, but then the “apparition” vanishes. Something flickers in the distance, as if a fire writhes inside it, and it penetrates the darkness with its reddish emanations. “May the saints preserve me.” 92
Posted on: Mon, 23 Sep 2013 15:47:55 +0000