I rarely remember my dreams. In the journey between worlds I burrow through the semiotic slag heap, a kind of wall of detritus from both realms, its coarseness scraping the dreamy white matter from my limbic system. Sometimes it takes a bit of my skin off with it too. So when I do remember my dreams, they must have been etched so deeply - by repetition or trauma or repetition and trauma, I don't know - that they have been written in kernel space, the syntax of my being.

This dream was simple. I was in the desert, alone. Two buttes stood before me, to the left and right. The sky began to darken. Cold rose up from the earth. A distant bird stopped singing. In all directions, the horizon emanated a pink sunrise. As the world was about to be swallowed by darkness, an infinite wave of heat and light was regorged by the horizon. My body melted away until all that remained was a gentle pulse against an infinite cosmophony. After a moment of deliberation, it was gone. I was returned.

The sky brightened. The bird chirped in earnest. I felt the warmth seep back through my flesh. The wheel continued to turn. I exhaled. The two buttes stood before me, to the left and right. Atop the left, a radio tower now stood. Its red eye slowly blinked. I stared at it. I woke up.