From blackness comes static, noise of a million blips of color as fuzzy, gritty nonsense. They flex, organize, congeal into a reflection of true image. You are in the desert in the early hours of the morning. No sun greets you yet but to hint at its arrival with the warming of the horizon. Wind whips at the burlap of your Kasaya. Dust bares down against your back with no harshness, cold it flows against your skin like icy silk. You know this is of the mind, you are walking among dreams. You know you must attune your focus and ((narrow your vision)) to escape this place. Up the hill sits an old war bell, one from the times of bombardment, it calls to you.

I have to wake up…