The ceiling is a great dome of golden lattice, glossy dark square pictures held amidst the gleaming rays, misty black or amethyst.
He woke to feel the blessing of all things, the hand of god cupping him amidst the field of pillows. He was dehydrated, had to piss, his legs and feet hurt, and yet he felt the immanence of grace, of a golden light and pleasure extending to infinity.
Little miracles, the joy in climbing a mountain. Leaping from rock to rock, painless, body singing with music that became the universe, song and story permeating it, revealing themselves as one, admitting no cold inhuman sterility. Existence revealed as ripping rhythm, acceleration, a dance with music and earth and the body. To run up the mountain without pain, clothes river-wet, strange admirable fool, skin glowing. Legs filled with ecstasy with each push, dislodging rocks here and there, stumbling with the power, power faintly conceived of and recalled as a legend, something inaccessible as a truly secret door when he was still weak as a kitten and full of pain and emptiness with each movement, continuing with the mummy faith of a flagellant pilgrim. There was flagellation now, heels dying and coming loose, dead skin and flashes of scraping agony, new flesh born unto destruction; easy to suppress, a small price to pay for this joy. How long could it be managed? Similar to asking: How long can you fly in a dream? You swoop and swoop, coming close to the ground, full of elation and dread and wonder, attacking it while it's before you. Eventually its appointed time ends and you turn to other things, content that you will return before your light is out.
