Jesus came to me as I drifted off to sleep. He had more holes this time, in his hands, his arms, his chest, like he was made of Swiss cheese. He flew on the wings of bees. These giant, fragile things, that buzzed so loudly it was all I could hear even though his mouth was moving. I read his lips say “follow me.” And I rose out of bed like gravity wasn’t even a thing, floating up to the roof and pushing off like an astronaut in a capsule. We left through the window, Swiss cheese bee Jesus and me. The stars were runny egg yolks swirled across the sky, I could see the whole galaxy. We were supersonic, circumnavigating the globe. He was my Peter Pan peanut butter savior, and he showed me all the things. He showed me where they make the UFOs in military bunkers, and where they keep the yetis on a preserve all to themselves, and how they put much more than fluoride into our water supply with special, flavorless concoctions that not even filters can remove. He showed me single mothers up all night and all alone and how they almost smother their babies but they fall asleep instead. He showed me all the closets holding sexual perversions even our modern society is still afraid of. He showed me how the ice caps are melting and the volcanic vents responsible, and how if you get enough perspective you can see the earth is all flat and spherical and hollow. We live on a Möbius strip of lies. Then he opened up my eyes with his bloody fingertips and showed me how everything is connected but in more complex and incomprehensible ways than the human mind can fathom. We are swirling music colors made of imaginary atoms, a cosmic funhouse mirror reflection of a universe unknown. Then he took me back to bed and bade me eat of him, to dine on blood and flesh. “We are the music-makers,” he whispered, “and we are the dreamers of dreams.” Then we fell asleep together, drunk on viscera and hidden things.