"He is in an empty field, stretching flat in every direction. At the furthest reaches of his vision, there is a darkness that seems to move, pulsing, wriggling, as if large things lurk just beyond the reach of his eyes. He can feel the grass beneath his bare feet, damp, and the air is thick with moisture against his skin and heavy in his lungs. He turns and there is a lone chair of simple wood standing not far from him. He begins to walk toward it... And then he is climbing a tree and looking up through the tangle of branches and he really wants to see what’s in the sky, needs to see it, something flying high above… And then he is standing alone in a blackened crater and there is a towering pile of dead things burning and the smell… And then his feet are padding through soft powder like snow, but it’s not snow; it’s warm and puffs up in little clouds with every step. All around him are windowless buildings smooth and gray and there is something coming toward him and it has no face…"
--From Work in Progress