Nightmares are strange things. Terrible things. They're dreadful enough because of the cruel images they bring to our unconscious minds, but even more despicable is the way they consume us.

Sweet, happy dreams, when we wake, will vanish into small wisps of emotions in clouds above our heads and the memory of them will become nothing but inaudible whispers around us. If we turn in bed, shut our eyes again and try to slip back into the dream, it is as though we've been locked out of that world- never to be let back again.

It is not so with nightmares. When we wake with pounding hearts, the images are still searing into our eyes- frightening shadows. Though we may will ourselves to stay awake, stay awake, before long we'll be dragged down by the cold hands once again and find ourselves drowning in our worst fears- our screams lodged in our throats, our attempts to escape confused and weak.

There is no escape until the break of day, and even then that fear will haunt us, and stalk us back into our rooms the following night- dwelling in the dim corners and in masked noises. Night always returns.

Memories are nothing but dreams. The light times often fade into nothing but breathy emotions- sepia toned and elusive. Despite these postcards from another world, which whisper insistently that there has been goodness and joy, they suffocate beneath obsidian reality.

Where does the blame lie? In his ebony designs? In the dark world that created him? There may be sepia beneath the rising sun, but night always returns.