Erebos’ childish hope and wonder about dreams simply being that – made up and manifested concoctions of one’s mind – lessened to a degree when his father offered up the notion of differences. That sometimes they could be real and tangible threads, and nothing to do with rabid teddy bears. People dropping left and right sounded as if it’d been concocted by something else; individuals usually didn’t share dream sequences and experiences, right? “Oh,” he offered helplessly, nose wrinkling across the pages and depictions. “This is tricky,” was a healthy admission; his mind was too young and fresh and unaware to really impart much more wisdom, save for maybe propelling prompts and talking points. And even then, it was based down to events in passing or things he’d already heard before.
Grabbing at the picture with the many-eyed monster, his face churned into a mild frown, before placing the paper back down, hopeful that particular rendition wouldn’t be in his nightmares that evening. “What if they’re not all connected?” he asked instead – pondering if these were all separate puzzles and pieces, just coincidentally launched all at once.
Grabbing at the picture with the many-eyed monster, his face churned into a mild frown, before placing the paper back down, hopeful that particular rendition wouldn’t be in his nightmares that evening. “What if they’re not all connected?” he asked instead – pondering if these were all separate puzzles and pieces, just coincidentally launched all at once.
erebos
and then we dream so much
