The Last Dream Before Waking1
They are massive, ominous; set up sequentially in a continuous line spanning the entire distance of the universe, streaking red and cobalt blue and ice white shards of light, shrieking cold friction shattering the darkness.
Flowing into the machine is the raw material of reality. The substance before it is defined.
Transparency funnels into the top right side, and space and time exit beneath, unrolling to the left. The machine is fixed in place.
I am outside this process, viewing it from a safe distance. I see the wheels turning ceaselessly, compressed against each other spinning like mlllstones made of indestructible material; oppressive, inevitable. I sense that it wants me to feel frightened…or somehow ashamed.
Watching the machine perform its endless work I feel nothing. No fear. No sadness. No anger. Nothing at all. It has nothing to do with me.
As I look closer at the product as it unfurls, I can see clouds and blue sky and buildings and trees. I see my street, my house.
I see myself sitting at my kitchen table, eyes closed, head in my hands, lost in thought.
At last, I open my eyes.
And then I am back on the other side of the machine.
It looks different now. Smaller. Less sure of itself.
I know something about it, and it doesn’t like that.
Inside I am smiling.