Hours beyond the initial alpha level the demons strike up again, perhaps for the last time. Armies of arms reaching, tearing, grabbing at him. Oppressive atmospheric levels launch his punches slow and impotent. So he climbs. Hand upon hand upon hand upon hand. Mountains of appendages to flee from, and then grab a bite to eat. He swings wide the refrigerator door. A swift arm grabs at his as he pulls away aware: glad Uním only dreaming. But still must run. Late for surgery. The room is darkly lit. Nurse Warner there to greet him. Good morning Dr Prichard. Morning Mst Warner, is that to be our patient? he asks pointing to the arms, legs, trunk, torso, head, and accouterments hung from the dim wall. Yes Dr Prichard. Then he must prep for another round. Another day. Recreate life out of life.

 

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