I opened the door within my eye, for the light of the stars in daytime was urging it insistently. The corpses were there in great number, as if they had been waiting hesitantly for the encore at a theater of loss. As the momentum of day struck them, they began to collapse and burst.

Some bled colored smoke. Some spilled ancient vegetation and juices from heaven. Some shriveled and crumbled artistically, creating beige flowers whose petals curled and folded back upon themselves. Others disgorged languages or mathematics, mice formed of symbols, or the faces of unrequited loves. One swelled and popped, emitting wings of endless variety; another spewed eyes of creatures innumerable. Finally, I saw one whose torn shell had revealed little figurines, each a living instance of my life in time; a selection from the moments of me, including this very witnessing and my recording of it.

Spiders came from the sky, and retrieved these fatal emissions, as if they had been messages awaiting recipients of some impossible and alien kind. They collected them in gossamer teardrops of web, and, pulling them behind, sped upward, disappearing into the blue distance that hid black space behind its hue.

I opened the door within my eye, for the light of the stars in daytime bade me thus. The spiders made their deliveries. Somewhere impossible, the unthinkable recipients celebrated. They were a liquid metal whose music caused time. They were a storming lie from which truth’s teeth plucked puzzling beatitudes. Gone. We were all gone. The empty spaces we had once inhabited became the pressure behind the door.