The dream eludes me even now. The closer I seem, the more of a bogy it becomes. My hand reaches out, my fingers must brush it, but I feel nothing. I am tired of running, but I know what happens to those who stop. I’ll stop when I’m dead, and then the terrors that follow will only win a used up corpse. Bogy or not, what other hope do I have? I will at least prove it a bogy before I give up the ghost. I will find water or dispel the mirage. I will not stop. I cannot stop.
Cannot Stop
Tale Told 