The spirit world retreats like it was never there, the enchantment bleeding out of the world as the gibbous moon disappears below the western horizon, as if the moon has dissolved in the light pollution of Buffalo. From somewhere, the angry blat-blat-blat of a truck's air brakes. You are terribly cold.
But did you really think Beaver would wake up? Would you want to wake up, if it meant seeing the world as it really is?
Who said that? Who thought that? Your head swims.
Don't you know who you are? Where you begin and end? Perhaps you don't have my clarity of will. At least not yet. Sitting on a crumbling brick wall is a little gray house cat. That's right, here I am. Well, here is a body. A bit scrawny. Sick, I fear—one last moment of glory before the end.
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