Sunlight spills through a window—dust above the bed shakes the dust out of my head and I'm back again. Back in time, back in mind, to a place I don't know how I got there. Then the dust settles on the bed, and all I'm left is sunlight in the reverie of the dark. It lingers, half remembered, I breathe... See I've collected sins like beachglass plucked from rougher sands. They exist as whispered secrets to remind me who I am, when I find myself off course, in wilder wood, teeth bared, howling loud, up to no good. All I have to do is reach inside and touch the glass against my fingertips—if I'm to die let it be with weighted pockets, half remembered. It's easy in a dream to lose your way, but there's hope you wake up in the morning and everything's the same it was before.