by Gordon West

It started innocently. The dream swept over and knocked his feet to the spectrum’s other end. It was those deliciously soulless, painfully attractive, icy eyes looking straight at him. They shattered the monotony that entombed him. Now he was un-encased. Unhappy at the tardiness of his metamorphosis. Unaware that more than the eyes were clear cut and gothically alluring. The orthodontia seductively lunged. And his feet reinstated their monotonously predictable station. “Next stop, Sedgwick.”