I'm still unable to get out of this dark grey bed, trapped in my inverted dream. My thrust smells like slashed wrists and knives. The blade sings to me, "The wounds still drip red."
The burning pain inside has turned into blisters on my skin. I am lost in the woods where dead trees do not tolerate any fragility of body or mind. I am scared to unfold my wrist in the darkness. The cold, brisk air invades my lungs. I exhale, my breath becoming visible. I step over fallen branches and am tugged by thorny vines. in swirling clouds of silver lace. The disk of Luna lies concealed.
Lights flickering underneath the mystic sky. I will reveal what is underneath her misty light.