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#39 Portents.I have dreams, surprisingly enough. I have always had them, the same dreams, the same signs, over and over. The dreams don’t happen as frequently now as they did, but still they come. And still I remember them.
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The details are fuzzy, and though I do not have the most critical of eyes, I still feel that I should be able to see more than I do. That the exact nature should be more clear than it appears, but never has it been so.
It begins in mist. Always in mist.
The place itself is irrelevant, and the appearance of the locale is unimportant. But it is shaded, and clouded nonetheless.
I am walking toward an offering table, of unknown nature and origin, but it is malevolent. There is a man in a hood, and I see the moon. The moon is eaten by a snake, or a dragon, I see it in his eyes. He strikes me, and I fall. I feel a sensation of doom, but I know it is not the end.
Sometimes I dream of green flame, burning, turbulent, and pyroclastic. I dream of an artist
#81 Drawing.After a while, there was only so much I could do. I stared at the cabin day in and day out, and while Adam was at work in the Lumber mill I didn’t have anyone to talk to. Not that I talked anyway, but that’s not the point.
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So while sitting on a porch like some lost puppy was endearing I’m sure, then stalking Adam about the house because I had never seen another human being in it’s native element was fun for a bit, I really needed to find something to alleviate boredom.
I had always had this problem. Once the novelty of something had worn off I meandered about till something interesting caught my eye again.
As I searched for some sort of distraction, I came across old photos, and maps, and some books. The old photos were of an older man who looked very akin to Adam, must’ve been his grandfather I’d heard him talk so much of. The maps were of the dig spots and tunnels of the old mines no longer in use. The books, well, they were interesting, but not th