Amos gazed wearily at the letter from his sister. She needed him again. Another foray into the occult had failed. He sighed and called his travel agent.

Peter stood dead still in the middle of a sidewalk crammed with fast moving bodies. Above him a cool mist of fog fused with the radiating heat of countless neon lights. The street was filled with nightclubs, each and every club fronted by a flashy-dressed barker shouting provocative promises of unleashed fantasies to anyone brave enough to enter. Peter was exhilarated. He felt incredibly alive. The smell of cheap perfume, espresso coffee and human sweat excited his senses. He had no idea how he'd arrived at this street, but he knew he couldn't be happier. Grinning from ear-to-ear, he sidestepped one of the barkers and dissolved into the seclusion of a topless bar. He moved deeper into the darkness of the club until he found an empty chair in front of a stage where great spotlights and bright, sparkling chaser-lights dazzled him. A waitress clad in nothing but a G-string and high-heels appeared beside him.

"Two drink minimum," she said.

He turned to face her nipples and unable to think he made a frantic glance about the room. A man at the table next to him had a bottle in his hand. Peter read the label, ordered two Miller Light, then watched the waitress as she walked away. Recorded music made a sudden change, stage lights dimmed, and when he turned around a blonde girl of exquisite proportions wearing a full-length black velvet dress stood alone on the stage with her back to the audience. The girl began a slow sensual move of her hips while at the same time lowering the zipper on her dress to reveal an expanse of creamy bare skin. Peter was transfixed, unaware of the man who now stood behind him.

"Hey, Peter," said the man.

Peter slowly turned to see a well-dressed young man. There was something vaguely familiar about him. "Do I know you?" he asked.

"Not really," the man said. "My name's Amos. Do you remember anything else?"

Peter shook his head, feeling suddenly uncomfortable as if there really was something he should remember.

"You're a long way from home, Peter. You're in San Francisco. You've been here three days, did you know that?"

"San Francisco? The city?" Peter felt a wave of confusion. "I don't understand, how did I..."

The stranger smiled. "Don't try to think. Sylvan's waiting for you."

The name Sylvan filled Peter with a powerful emotional response. He at once felt passion, desire, tranquility and peace. "I love Sylvan!" he exclaimed.

"Of course you do. Hold out your hand." Peter complied and the man handed him a thick white envelope. "Can you make it to the airport?"

Peter brightened. "A cab, a taxi cab..."

"Do you remember where you live?"

Peter nodded.

"Then I'll let you go by yourself. Tell me something, how do you feel?"

After a moment's hesitation Peter answered, "Tired, Amos. I feel tired."

Amos stared at him with a look of compassion then without word turned to leave. Peter turned back to the stage. The girl was naked now, on her knees, and crawling toward him. He smiled then started to cry and for the life of him, he didn't know why. Tears dropped on the envelope in his hand. He held it up, shook it dry, and looked at the papers inside. Along with some cash there was an identification card with his picture on it. There was also a ticket to Alaska.

He was exhausted when he boarded the 747. Fatigue was increasing, consuming him, and he was fighting it, fighting hard. He still wanted to see things, still wanted to experience. The steward brought him a complimentary glass of champagne which he gratefully accepted. Holding the plastic glass to his nose, he let the carbonation fizzle and pop. When he took a sip he could feel it. Then the vibration of massive jet engines drew his attention and this, too, he could feel. And he could hear. The sound was a living thing to him, like the rumble from the belly of a beast. Soon champagne and vibration overtook him. He slept until touch-down at the Anchorage International Airport.

Inside the airport complex he worked his way through throngs of people as he searched in vain for an exit then stopped his search when he came upon a large glass enclosure. Before him was a nine-foot-tall white Polar Bear, frozen in time by the taxidermist's craft. The magnificent creature was posed for attack and Peter felt deeply moved. "You were alive," he whispered. He placed a hand upon the glass and in an act of gentle reverence; lowered his head to the pane. With a sigh he turned from the bear and faced the crowds of people. Through one crowd he finally saw a wall of glass with a door marked exit. He made his way to a black sensor mat and with one step of his foot great doors whisked open.

He was hit with a blast of air so cold he gasped. He felt his body stiffen in defense as if jolted by an electric shock. Then he charged straight out into the frigid cold, laughing and swinging his arms, savoring every second of the intense physical sensation. He saw a car marked TAXI and a big man wearing a fur-trimmed jacket. By the time he reached the car his teeth were chattering like a child's wind-up toy.

"Where to?" asked the man.

Peter was shivering to the point of convulsions and it didn't feel like his mouth worked. He managed to mumble an audible, "23 Homestead."

Thirty minutes later the taxi turned down a snow-covered road. There were no street lights, no street signs, and no visible sidewalk, only snow as high as the doors of the car and a small house set back from the road against a stately backdrop of forest. The chimney of the little house seemed to cling precariously to its snow-laden roof while sending off soft faint curls of frosted smoke into the vast blackness of an endless sky. One small window glowed a warm amber hue.

Peter paid the driver, stepped from the car, and promptly sank to his hips in snow. He laughed aloud at his predicament, making one enormous step after another. He was using his body as a snowplow. But his steps became slower, the effort draining what little energy he had left. By the time he reached the door of the house his knocks were weak, little more than pathetic attempts to make sound.

Warmth surrounded him when the door opened, warmth and a pretty young woman who burst forward to support him. She ducked under his right arm, put her left arm around his waist, lifted to take his weight, and walked him into the house. "Sylvan," he gasped.

"Hush," she said to him. "Don't try to speak. There's not much time left."

He remembered her then, the scent of her, the touch of her hand. He let her guide him to a chair in front of a lively fireplace where the crackle of burning logs gave him yet one more sensory experience. She knelt beside him, her head to his shoulder. Peter closed his eyes and at that moment all his experiences fused into one blinding kaleidoscope of images, into one terrifying overload of sensation. There were dancers, barkers, smells, tastes, sights, pain, pleasure, chaos: life. "Stop!" he screamed. "Make it stop!" With this he sank back in the chair. Sylvan moved closer, pulling his head to her breast.

"Forgive me," she murmured. "I thought I knew what I was doing. Please forgive me, Peter."

Forgive he would if he could understand. Words, sounds, memory and thought were fading. He was so tired. If he could just sleep for a while he might remember what it was he wanted.

"Sleep, Peter," Sylvan said softly. "I can make it stop." She touched his handsome face, brushed a strand of dark hair from his eyes and pronounced, "Creation of mine your illusion of life cannot be. Of the mind and out of mind, cease the thought, I now set you free."

Sylvan rose from the empty chair and walked slowly to a wall-mounted telephone. She dialed her brother and waited for his answer. "It's finished," she told him.

There was a moment's silence on the phone. "Another tulpa," Amos said quietly. Then he shouted: "What prompted you to take it to a city? Did you just decide to give it free will? Talk to me, Sylvan!"

"I made a mistake."

"A mistake? Look girl, it's one thing to bring a thoughtform to material manifestation, but this one had life. You didn't just create some walking, talking dildo here -- "

"Stop it, Amos. It's not like that."

"Really? Then what is it like? You tell me. Why would you do this?"

Sylvan gazed a moment at the empty chair. "For love," she whispered. "For absolute unconditional love. Love without games, without lies; without deceptions. Love is always our own creation, Amos...I just make it real."