It was a game of some sort, or a play. An assembly of roughly 20 beautiful African American women, dressed in dark, monk-like cloaks that were light. The heaviness, or non-heaviness of the material was divine, as in, "of, from, or like God or a god," and flowed about them, effected by a wind or breeze that wasn't actual.
It was made known to you that you should run. No one said as much. The prompt came from your own combination of brittle floating bones. If approached by these women, you would not want to run, because of their beauty, because of their absorption of light. Needing no light. Providing no light. Allowing for the possibility that it could be okay, if you settle into the idea, that there will never be light again. Never even, ever was.
Run now though. You'll have to do it eventually anyway. Making the decision to not run, to try to wish away the need to run, in fact, is part of this game. Just as much a game as anything else.
They will want to reach you, and they will. They have been trying to reach you before you were a thing to be reached.
They will point out at you. Touch you with a finger, ever so light. Not a poke. More of a gesture indicating "it's you."
You could sit down at that point. If you wanted. Remember how a leaf looked one rainy October 30 years ago. Some flash. Some salt. Some sentimental itch. You could cry, if you felt like it. You're done now. You're done.
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