The phantoms of memories follow me in a single-file line. I can hear the muffled buzz and hum of their static communication; the way they rustle and flicker in the warm spring breeze. Isolated holograms of illusions and distorted context, they blink in and out, in and out. Framed in listlessness and abandoned shards of contrition, arranged with delicate care to accentuate the tones of aphotic fervor and effulgent ire. The crimes of hearts and minds and souls glowing like wordless secrets in the rising mist. The breeze dies and the air cracks in half; I'm shrouded in arid fog in a dusty red moor. Everything is quiet and there is no more sun. The sky is but a void above my head, and I am tethered to the terra below me.