Restoria VI

Endless is the void of the mind.

To encompass in a swirling spiral are dark clouds. Crimson flashes crash outside of the black veil within. In spurts, these thunderstorms of crimson crack through into the protective film between the outer wrought and the inner sanctuary. All centralized by the things that sit in the middle of the void. Faint noises of anguish reverberate around the darkest corners of the mind-scape. Sounds of joys mix into those of war the closer things get towards the sole coloration of the place. In this dreamscape, five senses float in-tandem at the void’s core.

A clip of a beretta’s trigger echoes out towards one of the floating objects in the center.

Flashes of a grey humanoid looks towards the moon. It’s teeth sharp on two points— and only two.

The smell of various fruits of familiarity and foreign.

Sensations of mystical wonders and of liquids that shouldn’t be.

And, the taste of death from something that still moves.

There— at the center of the void— sits the senses of the one who dreams. All five present, yet only four physically represented. Eyes, nose, pair of ears, and tongue; each float endlessly without a body to house them. Never to rest from their duties. Nerve-endings that would be covered by flesh, cartilage, and blood; all hang and dandle from the ends that each other these senses would naturally have them extend from. All fraying in the void of crimson memory.

“That dagger isn’t welcome here.”

“The Demon of the Eastern Wilds—“

“It’s time for your revolution, my misanthrope.”

“Hmm— there is my deliverer.”

“Trust the ones with the dark sclera. They will remember you when you are gone.”

Shockwaves move through each of the floating avatars of existence. One at a time; the waves transfer from one to another. Their experiences change between the four. The memories evoked different by the sense that experiences them. All except the invisible avatar of touch. Flashes of all senses transfer through it, and it through all of them. The epitaph to those that memories contort. A personification of the dreamer inside of the dream. A thing interrupted.

*Bzzt* *Bzzt* *Bzzt*

The veil is falling. A void finely crafted cracks and breaks. Under its own fragility, the unknowing architect is resetting the mind-scape. The conscious is regaining its control.

*Bzzt* *Bzzt*

Sub-conscious crams itself back into the space outside of the waking senses. Along with the buzzing wrecking ball, the memories follow back into the same dark void. Memories— like dreams— are as fleeting as the summer’s breeze to a newborn.

*Bzzt*

“It’s time for Lutèce to wake up.”