the white mare appears above you, as a malignant hole in space, pale face pearlescent against the black noise of your darkened ceiling... he whispers to you as your consciousness plunges back into ceaseless nightmares; “stop taking my deworming drugs what the hell is wrong with y
some consider the attic to be the most important room in the house, some profane this holiest of chapels with carboard boxes filled with Christmas lights and unflattering family photos, they will be dealt with in time...
“The Eye of Mara”
That’s what we called the prototype.
A machine for watching dreams.
A maze of wires and blinking lights.
To split the veil between the waking world.
And the world of the dreamer.