my dreams lately have been as silent as the oceans before oxygen, silent but teaming with slow, anaerobic life. living things so long extinct that no science remembers them. all these waters, darksome vapors moving upon them, & silence. my circadian rhythms provide the tides to these oceans, the flex of their waters. soon will come the ships carrying the exiles. the waves (or the heavens) will part, & the long quiet will be shattered beyond repair, replaced with the sussurus of the hive. the things of the old world will slink to the deepest crevaces & slumber as silver fish are born, as the clatter of insect wings stutters into a hum. into a world whose lies grow ever more elaborate to keep pace with the magics of a dead race. this is the skein of my nights.