The Lost City of Irem

          Last night my dreams took me back to Irem, lost city of endless ancient pillars, the Atlantis of the sands. Irem still hosts a massive army of displaced and distempered Djinn, who, thousands of years ago, ripped this wealthy dessert oasis out of reality itself. Now, it only appears briefly, from time to time, at the edges of our most lucid dreams, a magical Mecca teeming with twisted visions of those same titanic beings who, for so many reasons, no longer reign over these solid spaces that we’ve placed just out of their reach, safely insulated, as we now are, here between waking and returning to endlessness. I can still hear the screams of those who’ve made it all the way there, but still I travel onward, trying to reach the city of brass and fire for myself. I can only imagine that at least a few of those ancient people who were originally lifted into the gloom have found better things to do than spend their eternities screaming in terror.

         Soon, they say, I will find out for myself.

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