You quake before the sea. The fog grows hot and begins to boil. Late this night all light will be snuffed out. You sense transparent dogs in the shadows. I am invisible in my own dreamscape. The sinner screams, dying, wallowing in the muddy ditch. Birth and death never ends. The nameless, penniless fool lures you to the edge of town. Be wary of those wanting out of this world. With regret, the foreigner misses his chance, remembering old times.
by Thomas Wigington