When the dream breaks, her eyes open, seeing strips of pale, cold sunlight cut through the air from the East. It's strange, seeing the sunrise when she wakes up. Her usual window sees only the Western lights; the glory of sunset and the ashen dark that follows it. She prefers the sunset, for the most part. In the night, there is solace. When it rains and it snows and the droplets and flakes create tiny shimmering pictures against the velvet dark, she can let herself ponder. Sometimes the whole world speaks to her, and she tries not to get too attatched. It'll only vanish after a while. Things always do. She's terribly used to having things run fleeting from her grasp.
