And again I am trying to find a place of rest in a ruined world. The countryside is safe but there is no bed in the tiny shack out in the middle of the pasture. Sleep is an impossibility without shelter, so I start out for the city.
The streets are deserted and the air is filled with a fine mist, an ominous white rain.
(White Light/Black Rain reversed)
I am panicked about the radiation. I must get out of the deadly haze. I see a large warehouse and I run inside. It, too, is deserted, and in the corner there is a small wooden loft with a bed.
(Viviane's loft. Every once in a while she would wake up there, paralyzed from the jumbled half-dream, panicked about the demons dancing around her bed, just out of sight but there, she just knew it)
But the side of the warehouse near the loft is all glass, and the pane by the bed is broken, its center smashed in as if someone had thrown a brick through it. I gaze over to the next pane, and that too is broken. So is every single window pane down the length of the entire glass wall.
(A succession of instant-moments, of gravity, of necessity, of force. The container is transparent and broken. Fragile, the vessels shattered from the force)
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