You arrive at a vast cave after days crawling down the convolutions of the tunnel.
From all of the walls of this cave explode stalactites and stalagmites vermicular like a Lovecraftian paroxysm. The phosphorescence of a fungal excretion illuminates the way forward.
You have been here for what seem aeons, an insect trapped in amber dreaming dark dreams and awaiting the witness.
Are these rocky tendrils stretching towards you as you walk past them, guided by some ravenous tropism?
Or is this an illusion caused by the inadequate illumination?
You avoid them all the same, each time you touch one of them a plane of distortion cuts through the cave like the vomit of an electronic nightmare.
The wall of your prison shimmers with his every step. Or is it a spasm of anticipation as the time for reunion looms closer?
You reach the centre of the cave, the resting place for a blob or leech of impossible colours. Your image is reflected in its shiny surface: distorted, deformed, grimacing and abominable. As you stare at it, you are transfixed by flashbacks of all your shameful acts, all of the instances when you have surrendered to the impulses of the hungry Father Amoeba that lives inside you.
And then you crash through the surface of the blob, grab the witness with wet arms and bring him inside so that you can be one, finally.
In some respects you are dead. In other respects you are reconciled. Either way, your journey isn’t complete.