Eyes like a vast endlessness visit me in my sleep 

and during soft moments between moments, suspensions of time that condense and stretch its passage without my knowledge. 

These moments are intangible through their unconscious nature, blurred and unfocused. 

And those eyes, boundless obsidian stars, are one part of someone who is only marginally man, 

a being who takes my mind in his pearl white hands and sets it Free. 

But Free in only a limited sense—

this unconscious state he takes me to is timeless but not immortal, 

and it’s in being in it that I’m reminded of the true extent of my mortality. 

These dreams are merely human. 

I dream of human worries, human desires, human urges and other humans doing human things—

this reality is myself and my mind’s limitation. 

I witness these shortcomings with my own eyes, which are dull and finite, and anguish in them.

I hear a cold laugh (not cruel, only devoid of heat and human life) and hands, 

chilled like a shallow spring stream because of the blood that does not flow under them, 

pull me back down from my brief and devastating stay in the cosmos. 

His brilliant and ancient eyes do not mock me for the human way that I despair because of it: 

sweating like man, crying like man, feeling anger like man. 

It is not his job to do so; mockery is superficial and callous, something done only by humans. 

It’s through his endless patience for my anger that the scale of the difference between us seems to stretch like a galaxy. 

He leaves, taking his terrible and fleeting gift with him. 

But before doing so he leaves another, more merciful one behind, which is this: 

when I awake, I don’t remember anything. 

A small blessing.