My spirit shrunk not to sustain
The searching throes of ceaseless pain;
Nor sought the self-accorded grave
Of ancient fool and modern knave.

– Lord Byron

Why is it, Kyle wondered, you only really remember dreams when you're asleep?

That's exactly what it was—a dream, full of impossible semblance, and an endless chain of memories composing an entire alternate world. But Kyle only knew this because it was fresh, and as the understanding faded into sand and sunder, this world would truly be his. All thoughts of Jason had already fled; he didn't fit the mold, for this universe knew nothing of Mom Joke Manny.

But it knew Kyle. Oh yes. Interloper, pest, bug, witness—but target, most of all. Was this the foolish boy's second dream now? Tenth? Or had the first never ended, and he intrudes as a burglar, stealing intimate moments with a reality beyond his ken? To him, it felt like a billion, a lifetime of experiences he'd never left, only changing focus while consciousness slipped through the cracks.

To think everyone on Earth wields this gift, presents a breadth of penetration both staggering and mundane. But none of those others were here. None that Kyle could see, or feel. Wastelands of clay parched and baked in ceaseless sun and smothered in totality by starless nights could find solace in being more inviting; what they lacked in substance was eclipsed by history, mystery, and potential.

What stretched before him now, was the opposite of all those things, and less. Less life, less hope, less pleasure, all wrapped-up in less sanity. Just as before, it pulled at him, pushed through him, and drove barbs and steel teeth through his will. He wanted nothing more than to leave.

Of course, that wasn't his decision to make.

His mind wasn't his own with every second that passed. In a few moments, he'd lose himself to the narrative, that infinite tapestry all dreams weave. And then, he'd watch through his own eyes, and hope his character wasn't a raving fool, lunatic, or hapless victim.

And then the moment was upon him. It was then the industrial wail of angry steel threatened to peel the very skin from his bones, so vicious and sheer were the reverberations bounding from every stone, every star, and every molecule of fog. The damned swing again, of course. Somewhere in that oppressive murk lie a flinching monstrosity, flailing a stiff and rusty chain against the ground in a precocious tantrum. Lopsided and perpetually on the verge of final collapse, it would scream and grate to the end of time, forever unnerving the unwary.

In that, at least, it was a blinding success. At first, Kyle thought the sound was behind him. Then it was obviously to his right. Then behind again, or was it ahead? Those slow groans emanated from everywhere and nowhere at once, making him think of derelict construction cranes, a wasteland of high-rises reduced to badly oxidized steel girders and haphazardly bent rebar skeletons glinting in the sunlight. That image brought a shiver to his core; an abandoned town was bad, a ruined city was somehow achingly worse. Such was the fury of a decayed children's toy writ large.

Without any solid point of reference, Kyle shrugged his shoulders and started walking. The horrible decaying rabbit may or may not control the landscape, but it had to tire of teasing him sometime, or else lose the opportunity to truly sunder his mind. He wasn't so sure that was an improvement, but there was always the chance boredom rated worse than fear's avatar in the old God-dammit-o-meter. He hadn't seen any bleeding rocks, leprosy-tainted walls, or ulcerated dirt yet, but he was confident his looming captor would introduce those things and worse before the moon set. Maybe a fountain composed of grey and decayed fetuses drinking chunky fluid from the spine of their neighbor. Maybe a human torso suspended above a bed of hungry chicks clamoring for the supple anthropomorphic maggots chewing through living and writhing intestines before falling into their toothed beaks.

Kyle hoped to see none of these, but he prepared for the worst, because he knew it waited in the shadows with something he hadn't considered, and God help him if he panicked as a result. He remembered seeing a renaissance-era painting which featured the spectre of death herding the naked damned toward the gates of Dante's Inferno, and hoped there wasn't some sick parallel awaiting his arrival. If he saw anything reading, "Abandon all hope..." he'd immediately about-face, walk the opposite direction, and never look back.

And wasn't the volume of the metallic straining decreasing? To Kyle, no doubt remained that each successive peal carried less intensity, grew muted as he pressed forward, until only the loudest punctuated his attention—whispers from his addled subconscious. As that thought clarified, so too, did the surrounding mist. Not totally, but Kyle could see shapes in the distance, obscured by the lightest of whisps skimming through his line-of-sight.

And the swing. The damned pair of double-inverted v's supporting a thick tube, sporting three fully-functional seats and their accompanying chains. But this one wasn't decayed or fatally rusted, nor glistening and new like the schoolhouse had been in his previous introduction to this subtle nightmare. It simply was. It didn't howl, squeal, or grate any more ominously than a park playground. Maybe I got out?

He imagined a figure sitting on the far right, unmoving, head hung down over slumped shoulders, or maybe nothing at all. Kyle still couldn't see totally through the mist, and oddly his continued walking didn't bring the scene any closer. Until the counterfeit ghost raised its head.

Suddenly, Kyle felt himself yanked forward, dragged unceremoniously against any attempt he made at stalling his new momentum. He knew it didn't matter, feeling the telltale vertigo that told him he was falling toward the swings. Without disturbing the dirt, or otherwise betraying his presence, the distorted gravity guided him alone.

Then he was there. Though he didn't remember sitting, he regardlessly lounged in the leftmost swing, gripping the warm chains for support. Warm because the sun painted the sky a brilliant blue, outlining fluffy clouds in shapes inspiring and amorphous. Warm because he'd been sitting there for several minutes, relaxing after a long day of study. Ready to go home and help with the farm; his father may even let him lead the ox. Then the sad girl came and sat at the other end, not moving, staring into the distance like a broken doll.

Kyle wished he could help the sad girl, but she never spoke anymore. Not since the fire.