We were staying in this B&B in the Deep South. It's all Southern Gothic as could be. There's a white-haired widow who ran the place. A mentally retarded great-aunt in the attic who roams about at night and makes up stories about the guests. And an illegitimate octoon junkie stepdaughter who shows up at the bow window at midnight, looking for money from a trust. It's all very complicated and I can't follow the plot very well.

At one point, a Lego action figure shows up on the table in the room. What'sthis, I say. My wife says, that's the great-aunt. It's her player character, it means she likes you. She wants to be in your story.

And I feel a little put out that even when I'm sleeping, I need my wife to explain to me what's going on.

I'm walking down an alley of glass. The path slopes downwards. The walls, stories tall, are stacked plate glass and just slightly more than shoulder-wide apart. They're not stacked neatly -- the individual panes protrude inches out from the walls. It's all edge and point in the alley and all the light is coming through those points and edges: green light, green-white light.

And the alley's floor shifts beneath my feet like the shingle on Dover Beach. It's the shards of the plate glass and broken bottles. I'm wearing Chuck Taylors. I'm afraid to move because I keep cutting my shoulders and my hands. And when I try to stand still, I can feel the glass digging its way through the soles of my Chucks.

And it makes that sound.

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