He sails spaceward and down, back through bits of jagged chair and a substantial dust cloud.
A white hand – or is it olive?- reaches; young fingers with crushed red buds beneath their dirty nails cling like climbing roses to a man’s hand.
The seat of the chair becomes a box, smelling of death-salt and rotted water. The floor escapes him. He is in the cave again. He can see the pictures.
The darkness soothes.
The Darkness Beckons.
To look upon it is to be transformed.
But he is pulled by the white hand.
He does not sleep.