All dreams have a point.
That's why we dream them.

<sub>'But dear sir, my dreams, they die.'

           'Goodness, tell me what you mean.'

'They show nothing but darkness.'

            'Does it happen often?'

'Always and fornever.'

             'Goodness, show me what you mean. Draw me a picture, of what you claim to be, "a dying dream." '</sub>

Monday;
I had a dream of a field of flowers. Blooming roses hidden in the centre of the woods. They were beautiful swaying to the wind, dancing with the grass that lay beneath them. It was like nature's ball.

Tuesday;
I dreamt of a child, being seperated from her parents. Forcefully being taken out of the mothers hands. I felt.

             _{'You felt?'}

Yes. I felt. The mothers heart being ripped out, dropped to the floor and stepped on with nail shoes. Crying. Crying. Her heart left on the ground, a tragedy.

Wednesday;
I dreamt of rape. A young girl, held down by her step-father, taking beatings to weaken her body. She cannot cry, for she will bring shame upon her name. She's hurt, and she's breathing hard, and she's hating herself. When he is done, she is left panting on the floor, tears fill up her eyes, and blood trickles down her thigh.

Thursday;
I dreamt of suicide. A shiny, silver knife in my hands. I'm amazed by the power it holds, to take someone's life, and not feel any guilt.


<sub>'Sir, sir, please take this burden off my back.'

              'Dear, your dreams are filled with blood and gore. You see nothing but darkness through your eyes, correct me please?'

'Yes sir, I see only hell.'

               'Dear, when you dreamt of the field of flowers... you know roses do not grow in fields.'

'I like the red colour, sir.'</sub>

   '...'
'...'

                 _{'Dear, show me your wrists.'}