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[i]One, two, three – forward. Two, four, six – support. Two, four, six – forward. One, two, three – support. Hold.[/i]

Shuffling along, tired eyes watched the synthetic grass dance. Beads dangling down from a pair of developing antlers would, in some contexts, symbolize a prolific Nebula Shaman, but here, it represented a dream out of place. This was the spot, wasn’t it? A peaceful place where even the ghosts of the long dead sang softly into the wind, glad to have lived. Or perhaps, it was just another fabrication of the mind. The Witnessed Day watched the world pass by for a moment, taking the time to let his mind rest. His legs were far from tired, having been dreamed for walking, but his mind was exhausted. When he finally slept, he would be sure to dream a more complex mind. But, as it was now, he was dozing off. Dozing? Dozing. That’s how the word had entered his mind; he was here in Dozing.

Perhaps, if he sat long enough, he would melt into the grass.

Words entered his mind, but they were not his own. This, he knew. Melodic words, accompanied by string spirts, wood spirits, and brass spirits. Then, they disappeared. He had no quarrels with this. The newfound lack of words allowed him to tune into the primitive words of the nebulae around him. The feathered nebulae reminded him, vaguely, of his youth. He held them hostage with suspicious eyes, wondering what they were up to. His eyes followed them, trying to find their words, but quickly found themselves lost in the architecture of the ruins around him. Ruins brought him a sort of melancholic longing, but he could not understand why.

Dozing in Dozing, The Witnessed Day wondered at whom he might meet. The thought started with the present: “Who will I meet upon this living ship?” However, the thought quickly spiraled out of control. “Who will I meet in this cycle of wakefulness? What about the next cycle? Will there be another cycle? Am I doomed to incompleteness for the rest of time? What happens if I do not dream? Will I die? Can I die from staying awake? What is it like to be lesser? Can a lesser being stay awake this long? Does reality break down when they do? What do you think?” The last thought was directed toward nothing, but perhaps he thought to direct it at someone. He worried not if someone heard it, for he was no longer focused on walking, and his mind was free to wander as his legs no longer did.

He sat as if a yellow totem. His features were etched hard into his face, but unchanging. This was the closest he could get to sleep, so it was a quasi-retreat into himself. His sensory memory still functioned, but he relegated it to the depths of his active conscious, trying to forget what it was like to be aware for a few moments. The wind brushed his ceremonial beads, bringing forth distant memories of the day he took his name. He did not try to call his name forth, letting it rest at the depth of his soul. It was important that it rested, lest it bring him unpleasant thoughts. Such was the burden of a name, truly bound to one so intensely that it keeps the one tethered to a reality it seeks to escape from. He thought of it almost as a shackle, sometimes forgetting the value it holds. But such thoughts might rouse the name from its slumber to seek retribution for such an insult. The truth is that the name was him. Well, a snapshot, at least. A guide. A way to find the parts which had fled. It was only a shackle so long as he remained incomplete.

At such heavy thoughts, The Witnessed Day laid down in the grass, easing the load from his back, and letting the sky meet his eyes. Shapes danced beyond his vision, but still within his awareness. His thoughts turned to fate, and his eyes turned from hopeful dreaming to bitter malcontent. The feeling emanated from his being, more profusely than any amount of language. Even the dancing grass seemed to falter in its service to the wind, but perhaps that was just his imagination. After this quick marathon of thoughts, The Witnessed Day found true rest. He stopped thinking about such things, and instead let his mind hum. A simple hum, like a sin wave sleeping on a pile of dreams. If one were to inch close enough to listen, they might hear his inner thoughts, which were a discordant melody, which sought to explain perfection, but by its very nature was imperfect.