I could scarcely have imagined, when I started this blog, that it would morph more into a dream journal than anything else. I'm not shocked that I cannot maintain a proper blog. I do not have enough opinions or enough variation in my day-to-day life to justify one, even to myself. But there have been many, many fragments of dreams that I would wish not to lose. So here they'll be.

I wrote the paragraph above, and this one, to create a buffer of sorts so that the actual dream image will be behind the cut, I hope. It was that bad. The narrative of the dream started with what I called in-story displacement. There was some sort of parralel world action going on, and I was trying to find my brother. Along the way, I theorized how I got to be in this world, and decided that this new reality was a five dimensional version of displacement. Time and syncrocity worked to put one another out of whack and in weak spots, people and power flowed through.

One such place was called the Miracle of the Innocents. Apparently, a hundred or so years before my arrival, a certain warlord ruled. One town defied that rule, and so to teach them a lesson, he and his soldiers descended on the town's school, which was just outside the town's walls. They killed every single student there, drove iron spikes through thier skulls, and attempted to light their bodies on fire. But it didn't work. The fires, halfway through, suddenly went out all at once and would not light again. The bodies could not be moved from the pile that had been made of them, and as the days and weeks turned into years, they did not begin to decay either. When I arrived, looking for a place to make divinations to find my brother, the children were still perfectly preserved. The blood was even still wet, the coals born of the children that had been on the bottom of the pile still smouldering. The villigers, who left quickly, and everyone in the surrounding region decided that God had stopped time in that one place in order to force the warlord to face his own guilt. It quickly became a pilgrimage sight, and a small shrine, attended by a solitary priest, was made to attend it. I knew instantly that it was no miracle at all, merely a spot where time had been displaced. The atrocity widened and amplified the weakness, I was sure, but the weakness had probably always been there. And after I had worked my magic, using the spot to make ephemeral mental contact with my own future memories, the miracle ceased. The coals unleashed their pent up heat, and the fire blazed.

The attendent priest threw himself upon the pile in expiation. My companions and I simply left.