Let me remember what hideous thing lurks in the mind, and what lurks in our dreams. Is it in the wildest visions that possess our minds?-Or is it the wandering and wondering propensity to cry?-Oh, tell me, I beg! In unhappiness, which, of course, lay sad and desolate, might we hide from our souls? Or are we to never know what desolate thing that lay in our minds.

In the breaking dawn of time, which puts me in awe at last, may we finally see the edge of our dreams or visions? To the cynical, this is untrue, but to the minds of those who love or are playful, this is a fact.

When I was a child, living in a misty, age-old mansion with the ushers, knights, and my mother, who was the mayor of this town, I began to have strange lucid-dreams, which were--indeed--what drives me to write this. My father and his partners built that mansion by themselves years ago. In fact, before I was born--before I was even in my mother's womb!

My dreams were strangely vivid and fervent, strangely perfect and beloved.

And every day, when I woke up, I would write down my dreams, walk pass the purple curtains, and request my favourite meal for breakfast.

But then, reading my journal, I realized what strange poems I wrote!

"Oh!
Of the daemons and Angels,
Doth I be strangled,
Out from inside some hell,
And from the ringing bell,
That lay atop the fountain,
That stood still on the mountain,
And atop and viewing the sky,
Can I see some strange thing go by!"

But, of course, all tales must have a villain, and my dream alone was not angelic, for there, staring out into the distance, did I see some strange creature, hooded and cloaked, with such strange hanging down robe and with a strange and dismal mask!

I woke up with a sad and desolate feeling. And this time, passing through the purple curtains of thrill, I did not think to write down my dreams. "Oh, child!"My mother exclaimed, "What hath happened to thine eyes?". Here I stared out into some oval mirror, and then, very gradually, passed out.

"Lemme' be honest with ye, young boy, for I pity ye. Thou art to be done to da' dead, and ye cannot escape dat', for twas' already written...

But if ye have da' power to become a warrior, I may be able to help ye!"

The old man shoved himself towards the door before me, and here were we covered and blowed away by a strange light, and we were pushed over into the grass fields.

"Forst thou to survive mine own wrath, ye must become a warrior..."

"'I want to become a warrior""

"For that, young boy, you must die'''

THE END
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