He dreams yet again, caught in a neverending spiral of darkness and confusion. Where is he heading? Is there a destination in all this darkness?
“Where art the light?”
Mortals said that at the end of a tunnel, there is always light. But it’s no true here. There is never light. Light never exists. It is the absence of darkness that there is light. He looks lost for a moment, wondering where to go. A dull ache knocks at the back of his cranium, threatening to spill into a bloodbath.
“What am I babbling about?” he wondered. Lost in this age and time, where everything is meaningless and transient, like cherry blossoms that he saw with Anne during a trip to Japan a few years ago, in the depth of autumn. An insanity, it seems. How could the mortals there stand the heartwrenching cries coming from the tree sprites? How could they miss it?