Growing up, he had always read about prophets having
visions dance before their eyes. That was bullshit, his visions didn’t dance
for shit. They hung in front of his eyes, foreboding, threatening, like the
sword of Damocles, ready to fall on him at any moment. Those fakers he read
about always talked in images and riddles. His visions were clear, and they
were terrible, much more like that guy’s dream in the movie Black Robe, except they were always bad,
never vague. At first he had tried to avoid them. That worked about as well as
it did in literature.
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