I dream of you. Never clear, never substantial; always waning. Like waxen pictures, bleeding skies and torn clouds; pouring all the hatred you have for the world.

It's all my fault. I know.

It's all my father's fault. I know. We've faded into one, before you. As his life drains from the organic cloth and skin, they seem to forget what he fought for, the battles and the ensuing wars. They forget his losses, his pride and his love. Love is a powerful weapon; a terrible affliction. My father falters as time falls from him; I'm left picking up the crumbs, trying to make whole what has been long broken.

There is laughter. There is no pain. And this is what happens when people lie to themselves. Subterfuge.


I dream of you lately. Often. And I know you dream of me too. When I was younger you confided in me; When you were younger, we were the same. So you played your cards badly. You let the hatred decide, decide not to love me. But if I am of you and you are of me, how will you ever be whole without me?

I've discovered that if you're not preoccupied with burning the world, there is actually time and space to heal. I wonder how many times this lesson offered itself to you, and how you repeated your denial.

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