We are now two days into our nine month hibernatory slumber. The self-reflective imagery that we had so eagerly looked forward to has already proved entirely disappointing. It lacks vividness and grows fainter with every passing hour. What were we thinking, asking for answers? There are no lessons to be learned in the downtime.
Shrill snippetts of garbled voices echo and drift in from the street. They belong to the lost and not the looking. I offer direction, but they crave only directions. Don't they know who we are? What we are? What we can do?
I step outside to check: Has our once proud sign fallen into disrepair? Have the shadows stretched so far as to obscure the letters, making our mission moot?
Or is it true what scientists say: That no one reads in dreams?