There's a mirror here. This is a dream I know. A dream and nothing more. My dreams are other people's nightmares. Pain, darkness, and terror the subconscious on its best day could never hope to weave. But they're my dreams, and I hang onto them, like some lost sailor on the flotsam. Lost in the heaving shifting oceans of what I see. What I see is real. Isn't it? Not some mist born allusion crafted into the shapes that are most appeasing to the eye. Is any of it real? The pain, the nightmares, the memories that creep up on me and leave me sobbing in the shadows were no one is allowed to go. What is this truth? What is Truth? What Truth? Truth? Are you there? I need something to cling to and its been such a long time since I last saw you. You died with the magic. You died with Santa. It hurt me. But I lived on. What is pain but life, what is life but pain, when you discover the fairies are hoaxes and dragons are woven of words? You make your own truth and in doing so the nightmares become your dreams and you beg for pain because it knows your alive even if you don't. You'd cut yourself but your afraid to loose anything else after you've gained so much. There is a mirror here. I see it. I feel the glass, smoked and contorted by age. I see myself, somewhere beyond the waves of fogged reflection and the cracks that run deeper than my soul. I see myself there. And I'm screaming.