In the dream-world, I can take
the form of anything and anybody; rocket the size of a city, a small boy, jaws agape,
in awe of everything he sets his eyes on, a gargoyle, green and short, with a
queer sense of humour, a frozen pair of eyes, immobile, carefully observing the
passage of time.
But the shambles fall back on as
the westward sun climbs over the mountain and peers mercilessly through the open
windows.
Our forefathers used to follow a
ritual every night, before going to sleep. They would gather the skeletal
remains of animals and humans, and lay them out, in concentric circles, with the
head of a being at its center. They would then sit around, forming the
outermost circle, and sing hymns in praise of the Night-lord, imploring him to
delay the Sun God’s rise. We, the Cheshnakis, love to sleep.
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