Just as I thought I was inside the eternity that was the roiling pit on my lawn, I realized in what seemed like a frozen instant that the eternity was inside me. I felt it sloshing around within my body cavity as it simultaneously fulfilled and emptied my soul. Redemption and damnation swirled inexorably together as if making the beast with two backs on the battleground of my psyche. I woke up with a start, my eyelids shooting straight off my face, allowing my left retina to shuffle its way dumbly to the back of my eyeball, which had swollen to twice the size of the Earth (but only a fraction of the size of Jupiter). And as I looked within myself, I realized I hadn’t been sleeping at all. I got a last glimpse of the bed, there on the front lines at Dieppe, occupied by the libidinous redemption and damnation, and then a Sherman Tank rolled right in front of it, barely touching the tiny wheel at the foot of the bedframe with its treads, just nudging it enough to cause the entire battleground and the vast mindscape of the horrors of war to buckle in the middle and slide inwards, as you might fold over a giant pastrami sub. I could feel the slide begin on the inside of my cheese-plated skull, then working its way down my throat, crushing all my internal organs, and finally flattening all my bones down to a thin pancake. One eyeball raised itself up from the broken heap of bones and flesh to survey the scene around me, twisting on its thin stalk. John Lennon was standing over me, not noticing the enormous lunch box falling from the sky above him. He was crushed (except for his beard).