Walking on I see the lights up in the hills, occluded gems of water distantly swaying and shimmering. For a moment I wonder what the light is like there, what it shines on. One foot in front of the other, tireless and determined I could find out. It would be a silly quest, but a quest. I turn my head away, the thought with it.

Sitting here again I feel color seep away from my feet. The galley slaves writhe back, tirelessly pushing but it's difficult going. Epiphany is a whirlpool that takes you along for the ride. Selfish bastard, epiphany. It's decided to go the journeying route this time...

My eyes open and there is gauze. Peeling away the shadows I see a vast swamp, writhing slowly as the breath of one in deep sleep. My lungs mimic the beat, or perhaps vice-versa. Kneeling down I gather a dollop of green ooze around my forefinger. "What uncommon melancholy are you, friend?" I ask myself, for it's as much a part of me as my lips. We touch briefly; the sensation is not unpleasant. The trees weep lichen thoughtfully as they fluoresce in some inner study. I feel life in the distance past a group of trees and fungi, but it is quiet here.

As if split again, part of me is inside somewhere now. I feel myself in the confines of a vast cylindrical cathedral high atop a cliff, surrounded by waterfalls mumuring the faintest hymnals within the hollowed halls. The stained glass windows depict beatific beings, modern gods and goddesses. They are all intimate and personal in their expressions, arms open or brows thoughtfully turned. They are mothers of their actions and I swear, as the late day sun radiates down through the glass panels, you can feel them touch you.

These worlds overlap. In one I slowly decay, absently eating myself to pass the time as feet drag on. The mud sucks me under and spit me back up in almost whimsical bolts as hope wanes and waxes, the galley-toes snorting in annoyance. The other world is a sensation of vibrance, alighted and noisome, tuned to the physical plane by will, yet containing only me inside the smooth stony space. I turn my hands in the rosy sunlight, a loom of threads like braille as fingers read words between them.

It's a curious thing, being in two places at once. Someday I will put them back together, or perhaps move on to some new vista. In either case, the galley slaves will be obliging and my smile with them.

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