I’m on a journey that will take me to a destination. A story is being written, and the writing instrument won’t rest.

I’ve dreamed of being exhausted after long, necessary walks home. The road is twilight toward dark, and if I were to find a place to stay, I would arrive home as the final destination.

The encroaching darkness is punctuated by the swirling sirens, their orbit mirroring the stars. The fear that grips me at night is a stark contrast to the awakening town, terrified of that place. As the dream fades, I’m jolted into wakefulness. 

One scream, my voice is mute. The ceilings are moving, and the ceiling lamp has circular auras. There are no hallucinations; being awake is moving somewhere. 

Destinations are dreams. There’s a placidness on a road where I can’t get off. It’s too arduous, with no buildings, an inn, a feeling of the ominous, yet a place to make my home.