Psychopompia

All this week, I have dreamed of birds. The papery flutter of wings, the soft and dusty smell of feathers, high-pitched cries and beady little eyes. I can't seem to escape it. Every time I close my eyes, my mind returns to the birds. I see flocks of them outside my window even now, black against the blue-grey clouds of evening.

Don't know why. Is it freedom? Change? The passage of a soul from the dead to the living and the living to the dead? All I know is that my nights are filled with the sounds of wingbeats, and every morning, I wake up so very tired.