To lie in a hole in the midst of a plowed field, alone in
the night, in rain, is a terrible thing already. Even worse
is to hear those sounds. Silent footsteps in darkness.
Creeping footsteps in darkness. Footsteps in darkness. My
mantra. Footsteps in darkness.

I lie in that hollow and it is raining heavily, even if it
wasn't dark, I couldn't see my hands. That is good, because
I feel something happened to them and I don't wanna see
them. I don't wanna see that. I lie, I wait, don't know for
what, and I hear those footsteps.

God, why isn't death temporary? I'd die for a moment and I'd
watch that what's coming in peace and safety, out of my
body. Then I could come back and climb out of the hole and
find a green meadow glassing with morning dew.

Perhaps there are no more green meadows, I went over the
world. I found many green meadows inundated with morning
light. But the night always came, and the Plowman. The night
of Plowman.

Now I'm on the last field, which, just a while ago, was a
beautiful, fresh green meadow. Again the night came.
Suddenly and without warning. Seven stars fell from the sky.
And it started to rain.

I went blind and I hear footsteps. Who is coming and what
does it want? Who is the Plowman?
My hands are turning into... something, it's slimy and soft.
I can't see that.
Suddenly, for the first time I remember, there was a flash
of lightning, right above my head. I saw my hands.
My fingers elongated into slim jaws and my palms are heads
of octopus. Green, glazy jaws grout in the ground around me,
plow it, I don't control them.
Then the darkness came again.
The Plowman is come and it is me.