green as a motif


He had a dream about caterpillars. They were crawling over a close-cropped expanse of lawn the size of a polo field. He was nowhere in sight, but his consciousness was the lawn itself, a carpet of sensually undulating green.

Fifty million caterpillars were having an orgy on his consciousness. They were moving in the same direction, and the first wave had already spilled into the gravel and were lacerated and oozing green.

He wondered what drove them, why they didn’t veer away before spilling into the gravel.

He sensed that after the last one fell into the gravel, something that had been vital and essential in his life would be lost forever.

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