I see it every night in my dreams. At path the stones placed just so as it marches on with a torpid sense of deliberateness, as if to walk it would be a tiresome, laborious undertaking. But it is still morning, that perpetual fog lingering over the meadow, promising that my sneakers will be wet before I’ve done walking.

With nothing but a church set before me, I am not optimistic. There will not be much for me in this small town, but with nowhere to go but forward I’ll do so, Knowing that at the very least the path is smooth and flat, unobscured by trees. The view is serene, even sedate, but my heart is full of nothing but dread. What could await me in the little village ahead? If I wake up, I’ll never have to know.