Nightmare Potters

Dreams of pursuit…running…sometimes alone… sometimes within a small entourage of nameless strangers. Men and women, all united in fear and foreboding, not only for that which pants and grunts at our heels but for unseen monsters which lie in wait…

…Disjointed imagery constructed by imps and demons that labor in a dank, cavernous other-world…they cloud, confuse, and terrify our recumbent brains…cutting and splicing bizarre scenes which are projected onto our sleep-scape…never offering comfort or respite.

They are the nightmare potters…we are their clay. Frantically spinning the wheels…faster and faster…legs pumping in unison to an ear-splitting metronome clattering endlessly…clawed hands shaping and reshaping the vile vessel…dropping their excreta without a break as grotesque, formless beasts scoop up and toss the fetid morsels onto the wheel…

The potters hiss and cackle in screeching tongues…blind to all but the whirling, inchoate, muddy waste before them…endlessly driven by a howling master who roams the densely packed rows wielding whip and curses…the nameless one who toils ceaselessly and demands the same from his minions…for he is scourged as well…by beasts which only he can see…in the torment of his own dream.


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