God is Sleep and Sleep is God and There is No Sleep in this House.

It wasn’t the eye of the giant squid, it wasn’t the truck on I-81 that almost obliterated the Blancett family name, with Baby May squalling in the back. It was the headlights scanning through the curve in Amherst county illuminating the undead. Do their eyes shine red on a county road like a rambling possums? Yes I think they do. The curve, the truck’s lights in an arc, twenty of the slow hunger, there, wandering the field under whatever moonlight there is. Wandering upright toward the road in whatever suits and costumes that held them aloft previously. Say County commissioner. Waiting to drag us, you and me, down into the scrub of those clear cut Virginia woods. Stupid scrubs where the super slacked off and the front-end loader cleared out clean up to 460. Out 460 up to Amherst county. So stupid, banal and obscure and forever we might lie.