In the blackness of our travel through the earth, I see a vision.
Not so much a vision as it is a dream, though the edges are blackened, hazy, as though looking at it through a muddied telescope. The place I am situated seems as real as any other, and if I hadn't had experienced this feeling several times over by now, I would likely have misinterpreted it for merely being reality.
But their is a staleness to this vision, a slight blur to its quality that is a tell tale sign that infers this is none other than a memory. And not one of mine, either.
