Chemicals pull consciousness into sleep’s expanse. The mind, encouraged by the concoction working its way into blood, apes oblivion. Upon waking, it will recall nothing. Yet this a lie. Memory is exquisitely packaged by an overdeveloped hippocampus, tucked into the recesses of the brain and the unfathomable liquid that courses through veins.

Memory. Dreams. Inextricably bound.

The dream was forgotten.

Remember:

There exists a cavern. It is entombed in stone without end, stretching eternally in every direction. The rock is white, smooth, featureless. The cavern’s roof traces a past, eons ago, where it was composed of a collection of plates. They are now merged. Yesterday’s truth is hinted in scars, their contours the steps of a terrified ant evading the thumb of a feckless child.

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There exists a web. It lays suspended in the cavern, lit and warmed by the fire of a burning corpse. It is small, touching every part of the cavern. This is no surprise. It is, after all, formed of only four threads.

There exists a thread. It is the outermost part of the web. It is the longest. It is the strongest. Hanging from it are countless corpses.

There exists a thread. It is the second part of the web. It is the shortest. It is the sharpest. Beneath the bloodied silk is a pristine white.

There exists a thread. It is the second last part of the web. It is the sturdiest. It is the steadiest. When it is flicked it snaps back without err.

There exists a thread. It is the most central part of the web. It is the fulcrum. It is the scaffold. All light is stolen at its touch.

Warrior. Innocent. Dreamer. Saviour.

Killer. Coward. Fool. Liar.

Past the stone is a monster. Its hairless head sits on an unending neck. Its jaw unhinges, far too widely. Sightless eyes peer out of endless sockets. It approaches.

The rock is bone. The cavern hollow.

At the core of the web is a hole.

In time, it will grow.