Or at least trying to. The long wail that I woke up with, barely to my lips, is echoing in my head. If I try to pull the dream back together so I can tell it, I get flashes of civilization destroyed by flood, scavanging dogs and people. The dogs search for food, while the people search for memories and tangible things, something they can hold on to, something that will give them peace that cannot be found in the remains of a home.

I can fly, a graceful dance in the air that is more for release than transportation. I can move objects with thought, and the point of a hand.

Still there is a ball of misery in my chest, though it no longer wants to be released as a cry from devestated lips. It is fading... becoming smaller... soon to be forgotten as I go through the motions that begin my day.

I rarely remember my dreams of late. This one is leaving me with only flashes of recall, but for that I am grateful.