He has just entered a parallel reality, a bardic reality, a magical and stammering death, a stutter of reality, of magic malevolence, a tumor of the present, a trap by Solovyei, an inordinately elongated terminal phase, a fragment of sub-reality that threatens to last at least a thou- sand seven hundred and nine years or thereabouts, if not twice that, he has entered an unspeakable theater, a vivid coma, an endless end, the false continuation of his existence, an artificial reality, an unlikely death, a swampy reality, the ashes of his own memories, the ashes of his own present, an insane loop, resounding images where he cannot be actor or audience, a luminous nightmare, a shadowy nightmare, lands forbidden to the dogs, to the living, and to the dead. His walk has begun and now, no matter what, it will not end.
