How do you know but
ev'ry Bird that cuts the airy way,
Is an immense world of
delight, clos'd by your senses five?
The Woman is there before Ridley, shining like the sun, but the sun itself is missing, nowhere to be found. Naked and helpless she is lying, on a hillside green she is lying, but it feels true and he believes. He is himself, dark and terrible, and he does not fit well into this scene. He bares his teeth, now himself, and the scales and hulk fall off revealing a man, dark still, but small and unclothed. The hardness of his body has left him save one meager appendage and he lies down beside her, now atop her. He mounts her, takes her with force, takes her willingly. She screams and coos and scratches and bites and all the while makes sweet moan. It is all madness and fury, then nothing. It is over. He groans. She shudders beneath him. He rolls off of her and she climbs atop him, a beautiful woman without pity. It begins again. Madness, fury, and ecstasy. He should be glad. He should be glad, but he feels tiny. Feels impotent. This is a fantasy, but it is not his fantasy. This will not do.
He wakes, troubled. His vision of smallness troubles him more than the dream itself — he does not want to analyze that. But does he wish he was small? Truly does he? Does he wish he was some small, soft creature of hair and flesh? How could he possibly desire such a thing? It makes no sense. He must forget it. He must dream, dream of something else, something new and better.
He closes his eyes, relaxes, sleeps.