The Man in the Bed

He curls his knees close to his chest, because he’s in a bed that’s too short. It ends up making his blanket too narrow for him, too, but he falls into a deep sleep anyway.

He dreams of mocking voices directed at an alien task, even though the worker continues his task. The voices eventually turn into whispers rising from the dust on the ground, and even then he can’t hear what they’re trying to say. He thinks they’re trying to set some rules in place; a rule here, a law there, so that eventually no one will feel bad about breaking them.

Someone digs a hole and lays a rock in it, integrating it with the ground, so when the wind blows around, the dust is carried away. And the ground transforms into a field, a fertile one, then becomes a forest in the gloom that comes before a dawning sun.

It’s beautiful, and so he promises himself that he’ll remember the sight.

When he wakes up, he says nothing of the night before, because his eyes are sealed and his head is covered, and dreams were made to be remembered and forgotten.

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