Det blåser på månen.

I had such an eerily vivid dream last night. I was on a train; one of those old steam-engine models that doesn’t run these days. It’s body was ornamented with the most exquisite oriental carpets, the walls crammed with water pipes, african wood sculptures and the occasional dead plant in carefully painted clay pots. The air was thick with steam from the ever laboring engine, and smelled of dust and oil. There lay a muted silence over the train; not the serene absence of sound that can be ever so welcome in a busy world, but the nasty pressing one, that makes your ears ring and your nerves tingle in relentless foreboding.  The horrors I faced there where unspeakable, so forgive me for giving them little mention, and I pray I shall never know such dread again.  I met the Devil, that night on the train. He was so understanding and kind, it was almost painful. Even though I knew he was the very one to blame for my presence there, I felt I could confide in him. And I did. He didn’t