The focus shifts. It draws the gaze to follow a torrent of shadows into the torso of a strange doll whose uncanny features are at once alien and too familiar. The shadows are spinning and whorling. There are little sparks or fires inside the doll. The shadows will speak. They will utter seven sentences, three of terror, four of wonder.

As I begin to sleep the shadows compose the doll from thin air. Its voices become gods. There are swarming cascades of divine thunders behind the broken eyes of the little toy person. They mean things humans will never imagine.

The focus warps and flowers are arranged in strange geometries. The focus warps and there are the bodies, strewn about like broken angels. The focus warps and sleep becomes a bouquet comprised of the feet of animals and birds. The focus warps and everything is made of tangled threads whose colors cannot exist.

I awaken to see the doll has gone missing. There is only the slightest imprint on the wall, where, over many sunrises, something had obscured the light. The focus.