I know this, I can't go up against your Musician. I won't. Someone who breathes his music into you and touches you in his absence. Lute or flute - who's fluent in your folklore, one who is well versed in Icelandic mythos. See, what I do is slowly killing me, patiently even. What he does can kill you immediately, finish you off all at once. It's about picking the right poison, it's all about toxicity and surviving the loneliest day by system that will always remain down. You are vaguely intelligent though you are no Jenny Lee. So I can't tell you what not to do. Be wary where you should be, avoid where you must. You exist for yourself, I can't help that, but I trust you with your own existence. Though I must tell you, in the smoke of last night, in the haze that was last night, in that fog I didn't tell you. I had the most weirdest dream and in the fever of its grip, I liked you.

In the dream that didn't follow, I liked you too. I thought I was a dream, but I am just a borrowed word from another's quill, a vault in the sky that's being shattered, a wan light squeezed through the event horizon. But it was your dream I was having and it is pretty hard to wake up from someone else's dream. It's hard to remember a song that way.