You see the chariot pulled by sharp-relieved black equine forms, two of them, their necks held high and arched, one half out of phase from the other so as one head is pushed forward the others' is pulling back, great hinged levers like machines of flesh instead of steel. They have descended from the horizon beyond described in parallax style and are nearing the end of their journey, but they shall never arrive there, they will be stuck here forever in mid-stride pulling their cart in which you have imagined yourself laid out in back, being taken someplace you have seen only in your sleep.
A faceless sun beats down from the sky, the rays of which fall straight and without mercy onto the scene below, the sun is round and suggests motion, although it is also fixed in position near the top of this world, and just below the lid which has been sealed and is no longer meant to be a doorway, the one person who passed through it it's only fare, and meant to carry no one else ever again, just like the horses and chariot painted on it's porcelain hip.
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