The Great Ignacio Mandonado, 1

In the morning the sun hung like an evil eye in the sky and watched over the village of Guatgital with malevolent interest. Ignacio had fallen asleep after a night of frantic scrawling in a desperate attempt to commit his epiphany to the page before it was lost to the annals of his memory. Now he lay in bed under the oppressive heat of the sun staring through the window, sound asleep and snoring like a moose. In his dream he heard the echoed calls of Patricia for him to wake up, it was time to go. He heard the creaking of a door, and monsters of every description and even beyond description swarmed upon him, shouting for him to wake, for he was late, and prodding and shaking him nearly to death. But still, he did not awake.