My thoughts wonder how long this will stay nice. I should just enjoy this rare instance of a calming dream, though I can't for the life of me stop worrying about that bird in the sky. If there even is one, or if it even is a bird.

Do I dare walk forward? Do I dare burning my feet on the sand? Do I dare fall through the sand?

I don't have much else to do. I can admire the sun, which my eyes welcome. Every gas that burns with it is seen. The mixing temperatures create a cauldron of breathtaking beauty. It's scary how splendid it is. I wanna be stolen away by it.

Still terrified of the next outcome, I move anyway. My walk starts with shaky knees, my legs prepared for the next wrong move better than my brain.

Walking is slow. It isn't interesting. Maybe bending down and writing a big ole

"Nyx"

in the warm sand is neat. 

It reformed. Every stroke of the "n", the "y", and the "x" are swallowed by a new word.

It takes its time. It plays with my mind. Is it my mind torturing my own self? It's implied it's my dream?

The writing is deep, curving, you'd imagine it's the suns own hand. It melts. It forms a rock, solidifying it's place further than mine.

The rain clots my eyelashes, blurring my vision.

The sun doesn't want me to know. It doesn't matter that it really does steal me from sleep. Through the curtain of water I see the trees, the edge of the dream world. Reading the words doesn't happen, but understanding does.

My awake self must stay away from the forest.