In the dream it was always storming, and beneath the storm wrestled a fabric of bodies all intertwined and vast. They roiled upon themselves, a filthy sea slick in the rain. The dreamer watched them from a distance and then stood at their knotted shore and then suffocated within them.
It was always the same. The impossible depth of bodies coalesced and the dreamer was part of them and all of them at once. A single being. A terrible thing that rose like a mountain from the land with bodies all reaching together and stretching and soon they pierced the slate clouds and climbed into the sky beyond in triumph over the storm. They stood mighty in the darkness above the world. They reached further and further towards the stars, but in all their reaching they found nothing but endless night. The heavens were empty. Darkness alone waited for them, and with nothing to reach for and nothing to hold they despaired in the void and lost themselves to it. They let go of one another and toppled back to the dead land below.
The bodies fell like rain. And once shattered they could not rejoin and with nothing to hold and nothing to want they turned to gnashing. And the dreamer was lost and bleeding among them and all their eyes burned and the earth stank of iron and in the end the dream was nothing but death and empty darkness.
It was always the same.