His dreams were dark nonsense, that symphony of gibberish that spoke only to the personal mind and nothing else. It would mean nothing to the head of any other person, it was the bizarre interpretations of the world filtered through web of the unconscious, where feeling became sounds and sounds became images, and images were cut and pasted around with no sense to how or whys. Images like magazine clippings arranged to tell a story of more emotion than logic, seas of images and the illusion of sounds that created an experience more vibrant and rich than those of life could ever be.  Thus, opening his eyes to the real world became a slightly bitter experience, as the memories of story-lines flushed and faded by the fingers of morning sun.

With a soft yawn that mingled with a sigh, Givenchi-chan stood to his paws and stretched. Poking his head through the nursery door, a feel of distaste came over him. Only vague hints of former dreams lingered on over him like the spotting of clouds soon to be whisked away by the noon breeze, and yet they still so strongly tinted his perception of the current of reality. Compared to the vibrant world of his nightime fantasies, the winter landscape of camp and the world not far beyond looked like bleak lovat marbling.