There was a river in front of him.
It was nighttime—or at least he thought it was. He couldn't tell; when he looked up, all he saw was infinite darkness, a yawning chasm that both expanded into the unimaginable distance and yet hovered on the cusp of his head like it was threatening to collapse upon him at any moment.
The ground was the same shade of black too but not in the same unending gradient as the sky above. Instead, shadowy blades of grass rustled in a phantom wind and growing right on the river bank were lush clusters of spidery flowers (1), their crimson petals so bright they made his eyes burn.
He couldn't remember what they were called.
Red spider lilies. Bloom for a thousand years, wilt for a thousand years. The flowers and leaves are destined to never meet. (2)
He couldn't remember what he was called. Why was he here and where was this?
"Poor child, you've come by so many times, it's no wonder you're a mess."
