Greg Bem dreamt about a water fall and the people floating near it. We, and by we I mean I was one of them, floated by on rafts and tubes--some looking sidelong, some not saying much of anything, some offering warning, others weeping. He recognized the faces. Our roommate at the time told Greg "Don't go down there man, there's nothing down there for you." I wasen't saying much of anything.
The treeline dawned. He saw himself on the bank, slowly becoming part of it, himself shortening. The slop began to cover his shoes and his socks began to mimic the swallowing grain. The water too was rising, at his neck now, as his anchorage held, thickening in the murk of his vision. His fixed body eddied the river, flinging away limp boomerangs of old rain.
The blue of heaven wasn't mentioned. Greg Bem choked up another dream. His chair creaked. The snow hit the window and gathered on the false sill. Hardwood stuck to both of us. It was 11 AM, as usual.
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