Dreams are composed of many things, my son. Of images and hopes, of fears and memories. Memories of the past, and memories of the future...

Memories were waiting at the edges of things, beckoning to me.

Different people remember things differently, and you'll not get any two people to remember anything the same, whether they were there or not.

All that I did," she said, "everything I tried to do. All for nothing."

Nothing is done entirely for nothing, said the fox of dreams. Nothing is wasted. You are older, and you have made decisions, and you are not the fox you were yesterday. Take what you have learned, and move on.

Recounting the strange is like telling one's dreams: one can communicate the events of a dream, but not the emotional content, the way that a dream can colour one's entire day.

You hurt. It's okay. I hurt too. Hold my hand.