The feeling is sinking in, just beneath the surface. A distant melody of loss and darkness. Something deep inside, where words aren't apart of the world. Dreaming is normal, the Dreaming is where Dream lives, where Dream lived. Is that right? Is that what the truth is? How can a dream be Dream and not an idea? Are we all ideas? Maybe that's where this feeling is coming from, the idea of being a feeling an idea. Death is an idea, as much as a state of being. But can one be Death? Is it death or is it Death. Is death a person? Or just a personification?

Everything that lives, must inturn die. Everything that breathes will take one last breath. See feels their last moments, when they come to her and need her to guide them. But that's not right, that's not how this world works. She solves their deaths. She is the one who finds out how they died, why they died. She takes what she's given, and she compaires, she studies, she finds things that matter. She isn't the one who helps the dead. But is she? Is she supposed to? Why does she feel like she's needed elsewhere. Why does it feel like the souls aren't moving on like they are meant to, like they are waiting for her to guide them?

80,000 years is a long time. But time is relative, the earth rotates and the sun stays still. Time is a construct, days don't really exist, not like they are meant to. Tomorrow never comes, as it's always today, right now. Feelings of loss and loneliness are just that, feelings that fade. But do they fade? Why does she miss someone who has never been? But has he been? Dream was real. Despair was murdered. No one was murdered, her siblings are all still alive. Her brother is alive and well, she spoke to him yesterday. So why is she feeling like she'll never see him again? Where is this need to be sure coming from?

Destruction turned his back. Betrayal, it was a feeling she wasn't used to. She understood his choice, it had been hundreds of years since he made it. But that couldn't be right, destruction was all around her. Every day there was more and more. But the memory of the meeting, of them all coming together for the news, it was there. In her mind like something she couldn't forget.

I always come back, once a century. Maybe that's what this is, my time back among the living but was that right? She was always alive, until she died. She was alive and well. But this idea of coming back only for a day, that was normal too. Wasn't it? It couldn't be normal, it wasn't how this worked. Life was what you got, days, weeks, years? You had no control over it. Fate determined when you were meant to die. If it wasn't your time. But then who took you to the after life? Was there one? Was it real?

Maybe this was a dream. Maybe these feelings weren't real. There's something that pulls beneath the surface, dragging out the feelings that don't make sense. The emotions, confusing. It's consuming. But is it normal? Is it what is meant to be? Maybe it will go away, maybe tomorrow will be different. Maybe the voodoo pristess knew what was coming when she gave her warning.

Life is everywhere and nowhere. Right now, the feeling of being in Boston, in New Orleans, on the other side of the world. There shouldn't be a confining space, there should be everything and nothing. This isn't how it's meant to be. Life and death co-exist but they must balance. One cannot survive without the other.

This moment is strange, this moment is unique. This moment is a memory and an action. A time and place that can both not exist and must exist. A feeling of power with a limited amount of self. Something must be real, even if touch says everything is. How can it be?