I dreamed I was the Creator, and my world rose up before me like a sandy hive. A far cry from a verdant paradise, it was a searing, barren wasteland; a sun beat down upon it day by day without love or mercy, and dry, endless winds howled across the swelling deserts. My eyes stung and watered, my cheeks burned, as prickled by a thousand needles. How could such desolation have come of me?

There was a twitching in the sands. The spot swelled; as the beginnings of a mane began to swirl in the gale, it lifted a long muzzle to the air, I realized -- a horse was being born ... the first, the archetypal, the one who would set the mark for all those who would follow.

Shivering -- though it broiled -- I watched in half-wonder, half-terror, as it rose up on its knees, then to its hooved feet, streams of tiny hot grains cascading down along its rapidly solidifying bumps and curves. It was impossible to decide what happened first or next; it happened now. It shook itself, already fully grown, and the last golden specks bounced away from its new, shiny hairs. It was beyond magnificent.

On instinct, I reached out a divine hand; and the moment I lay the soft pads of my fingertips on the silky bristles, its lips curled back in a soundless scream; a jolt came through me like an electric current, potent, organic, and fleeting; it threw back its beautiful head, and burst in a rain of sand.

I cried, and cried, and cried ... the loneliest deity, left to a world of ruin and fire.