I dreamt the world, the earth as an entire globe, a sphere, had shattered beneath my feet and disappeared, the pieces falling below me through the black of sky and stars, so small as they receded from view, becoming nothing.

In the dream I laughed with bitterness, at you; at you and everything you had done with which I had not agreed.

In the dream I wept, for myself; for myself cut loose, alone, self-pitying.

No, it was not so simple. Though it is true, that is all you think of me.

In the dream I laughed with bitterness, at myself; at myself for inevitable folly of will, for whatever I had done, whatever I had become through hoping for a world, wanting a world.

In the dream I wept for you; for you for whatever pain and loss of war had caused you to lose yourself, your way, to vanish into the darkest void of night. For you surely vanished.

I was free, without the world, company, anyone who knew me, with no one's pain to bind me that I could respect. I was free to feel: to weep if I felt the impulse, to laugh if I was lost amidst those strange to me, to whom I was strange. I was free to recreate myself in any way I chose as I deemed best.

In the dream I held to what I valued, seizing memory in force of will with iron clenched fingers, wresting it from mind to matter. Not physical matter; consequence.

I never woke.

Name: John H. Holliday, DDS.
Fandom: History.
Word Count: 250
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