. He woke up in the bottom of an empty grave. Not unusual for Riggley. He was a necromantic and a narcoleptic. Came to St. Sebastian’s Cemetery to conjure. Was lulled to sleep by the steady rhythm of the highway. Along that lonely flat stretch of road it was mostly tractor trailers or lorries as he insisted on calling them even though he had emigrated to the states when he was seven and retained only made up memories of his youth in Scotland. The type of memories fashioned from movies and books and television that he used to convince himself that he wasn’t so strange and alone and that the world recognized his past almost as vividly as he pretended to.
Riggley lay there for a while watching the blue sky spin clouds across his rectangular vision box. Relaxed against the cold ground. His hands behind his head. His mind nipping at the edge of a day dream. That too was fairly common. A lifelong narcoleptic was used to waking up in strange places. It comforted him that he needn’t be troubled by it. Watched the sky some more certain the whys and hows would come back to him in due time. They always did.
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