The End of the Sidewalk

This is the end of the sidewalk, where the dreams end and reality begins. Here the traffic lights are always red, and you must get out of the dream in order to move on. The path crumbles softly into the darkness that awaits at the end. A heaviness envelopes the heart. Footsteps of people who have walked here before echo hollowly: footsteps of the ghosts.

At the end of the sidewalk, the street lights are dimmed, one by one. Slowly, each orb of light fades gently, like the memory of the touch of a finger on skin. They go out as if they know that there is no other choice. Instead, a red glow pulses somewhere in the impending darkness, like a beating heart. The sky fades from a pale, washed blue to a sooty ink black, grainy like a photograph of the olden days, reminiscent of things that once were.

The long grass here is all wilted and brown. It crackles softly beneath the feet, and when the wind blows through them they whisper mournfully, a song of what was lost forever. The only things that grow here are small white flowers that have no name. People who have come to this place have no time to stop and study them, let alone admire them. Each flower has four delicate petals, each shaped like a perfect heart. They fall away at the slightest touch, and in the darkening light they glisten softly, like fallen angel's tears.