Cloudy.
Fog descends around my body, and though I know that it's not real, my mind is foggy.
So foggy.
A figure approaches swiftly.
He turns to me but faceless, always.
Blurry.
At the edges of a formless undefining form.
I sense the actions--the motions--with my mind, and in my minds eye I know they happen.
But they're blurry.
So blurry.
Venturing from hill to sea, I see frames clear as ideas.
Ideas as realistic as they are real, which is not.
Mist descends on definition, and clouds it in a foggy, gray storm.
So stormy.
Fading images pull away and loom closer still, like ghosts in haunting forms.
But formless is the scape I roam, and darkness clouds the light.
In night.
While wandering my dreams.