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Sometimes there is no one here at all, and I sit in the darkness of the fog. The land has changed; it's foggy and cold, black where I touch it... and luminously grey in all other distances. I write fragments of poems to pass the time, and doodle familliar pictograms in the dust.
It's interesting; even if I don't see someone often, the fact that I could, if luck favors me, gives me a strength of heart; they feel close. Now, I worry about the people I cannot see, about Scape and Dag and Nevilly, so close and so far away.

I slept and had a dream.
And in this vision, I was walking in yet another foreign world, not the forest, but a garden. Sweet roses grew all along the garden's walls, trying to escape and fly over the fence, out into the world I know far better. And there I came upon a painting that showed looming dangers; there was violence, a red stag with grand antlers, but inside very small and frightened, with eyes too withered to see; and there was Greed of the heart, a skinny doe who tried to hold all close and let all seep away. And there was Lust -- not the deer, Lust, but the dream, Lust -- who looked to me so alien I could not know her nature. I thought she had a gleam in her eye I misliked.
I turned my head and saw my host there. My host was a beautiful creature, not wholly deer; far more delicate of limb and soft of eye, with long lashes and a sweet smile. She had with her her handmaidens, Despair and Joy, who walked in her shadow, and could do good or evil. But she herself was benevolence itself; she herself was only Love.
"Come and walk with me, sweet disciple," she said. I have never refused her, and so took to walk the garden beside her. We walked down the path and saw all manner of pretty flowers. Until at last we came upon a white rose, lovelier to me than all flowers in the garden. It was a joyous rose, but it trembled shyly in the wind, and the stem turned towards me before darting away.