Does the mist become heavier? I am not able to see silhouettes of the trees. I found a place to rest my head, on a silver cataract. Cascades so restless. Catching pale glances. Moving in silent dances. Coloured in floating ashes. The mist is heavier down
here, swirling and white like dying embers at the night. I can hear it whisper. I close my eyes and listen. I can hear it whisper. Does the mist become heavier? I can hear it whisper. It whispers and it lures, wants to lead me in the thicket. But where could it take me?
I think they're just old dreams. A part of me wants to follow them back, oh, and get lost. Lost in old dreams, it must be easy. I open my eyes, dazed by the mist, and run blind through the thicket. Away from the waterfall that vomits dreams and lets pale mist dance.
Where could they take me?

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