My breath is feral. I can hear myself panting. My skin exudes the scent of musk and undomesticated mud. From afar, I hear the sound of a loon wailing in its crazed laughter at the Moon. It is dark, but my eyes can see perfectly. I hear him first. His heavy leather boots make a dissonant chord in the symphonic orchestration of opossum hymn, owl melody and cricket choir. He is corpulent and strangely agile in his cumbrous body, creating an arrhythmic pulse in the beat of the woodland at night.
It happened on the thirty-seventh Stream…
Sybil has been a Dreammaker at the Company for some years when she is visited by a peculiar being that invites her to question her reality and what she has come to think of as Good and Correct. Over a three day liminal picnic she gains access to exiled parts of herself, realizes the dangers of living in an ill-fated utopian vision and begins the process of learning to listen to her own voice.
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