Sleep was knitting up Steve's raveled sleeve of care into a grotesque nightmare. He was running running like a deer fro a hunter with a telescopic rifle. The forest he was running through was black as death. The, when the thick branches over his head loosened, he saw that there were stars on the night canopy, stars like pins stabbing down on the world to stop it from revolving, from spinning across the void. The stars formed patterns that were chaotic, mocking, horrible. The indicated something monsterous about the cosmos, something unbearable to a puny human mind.

1968.