Years after the initial dream of that post-war roadside stand, I dreamed of the soldiers coming to it at night in a time when the war still raged, so I lay the groundwork here.

I flash-dreamed the bloody goat's head with the chicken-feet poking out from under it, with a vague sense of other horrible things in the design.  And I knew, somehow, that the chickens lived.

Why would the dreaming mind make a mandala out of such horrific ingredients?  A warning that the Shadow, overstuffed with repressed material, rapidly approached a perfection of ugliness that needed dealt with before too late.  A suitable warning both for Headmaster Wallace Weatherbent and for myself.