Half an hour before midnight, Sylvia placed the weird creation she titled BELEAF in the front window where the owl had looked out to the street. Her right hand ached from the rapidity with which she practically absorbed someone else's vision and energy for an unlikely subject, a holy woman who bled and wept like a blinking neon sign as a perturbed painter wearily maneuvered the life-size canvas into place. She then snuffed out the colorful sandbag candles and locked the gallery.

Cautiously, Sylvia made her way down Main Street back to the cottage. She was almost certain that only by the grace of the moon threading her sullen path did she arrive safely although fatigued and forlorn, dejected and disappointed. The town, motionless and quiet, had disturbed her. She felt like a robot, trotting heavily back to the cottage away from the nightmare of Paradise and Mirage, her dream gallery that seemed more and more like a bad dream....

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