Before me is a golden field.
The one who tends this field reaches his hand out to me.
My sight is full of blood and tears; even if I try to reach out to him, I can't make my hand meet his for all of the world.
In my head aside from this is but a memory flickering out of existence, a dark memory of a fall and growing cold.
Sick.
But before me, even the golden field is melting away.
The one who tends the field, with his outstretched hand, becomes far away
In my ears I hear,
"This is getting old."