I fall into sleep like a swaddled newborn without a Moro Reflex. Tucked away into the sanctity of nineteen year old girl college days, I drift off to sandy shores in Hell with blue black waters like Maine's Atlantic lapping the shores thirstily. There are sea stars and sand dollars at my feet, and I sit on a piece of driftwood. Pandemonium's skyscrapers dot the outskirts of the bay, and in the distance is an island half Alcatraz, have Mon St Michel, that rises in sandstone turrets from rocky cliffs.
The strain of a violin echoes across the waters, and I sway in time to that lilting damnation. A sheen of red quickly passes over the Styx, and from the distance, an iron skiff blanketed with eider down floats towards me. I know it has come to beckon me onwards to where the infernal Sanhedrin headed by Samael hold court, judging the Damned.
