Screaming me.

Dream of green, lay me down at last, past.

Past?

Past, passed, past time.

Time. Past. Time passed. Did it really pass, or was it a green dream?

I had a green dream that was no dream. In my dream, time passed, and so it did for real. But was it different?

I had a dream once. It was like a memory, in the way that a memory is like a dream. And in my dream, or my memory, time passed, but in a new way. My dream told me that once, before my dreams were green, time passed in a different way. But all memories are dreams by me now, and that is how I knew. I knew this was no dream, but a memory.

I don't care about memories. Memories are not green.

I don't care about time either, but it invades my dreams, turns the green dreams to silver white and sharp barbs of gold with a bitter taste of ammonia and almonds. I don't like the taste of time, but it will not leave. I try to send it away, leave me with my green dreams of the Mother. I care about the Mother. She cares about me, she lives in me. She eats at my soul and turns my dreams hot red, red hot burning turning to love for the Mother. Mother love. Turns like a tide that brings me to the shore.

I don't care about the tide. I care about the shore. I hunger for the shore, I want to eat the sand of the shore and be eaten in turn. The shore where hope is. Where hope is one thing only.

Sephiroth.

My body aches for Sephiroth, Great Sephiroth, Sephiroth of silver white, he invades my dreams with his own green pain, the pain that lives in the eyes. We who are one with Sephiroth know the pain, love the pain. The sweet, green pain of the Father, Father Sephiroth, the pain that lives in the eyes. The savour of antifreeze and cloves. He knows our pain, the Father does, the hot spice of the Mother, the burning, speaking pain that lives in the soul.

I am one with Sephiroth, Father I love.

He is above me now. I can see him on the edge of my tasting. He flies above me with death in his mind, his heart, his hands. He carries a part of the Mother Jenova back, back to the rest. He will take her while I wait. In my hole I wait and He will come to take me unto him, the blessed home I crave of the Mother and the Father in luxurious pain.

I found myself a hole once, when the pain was new and the Mother grew inside of me. She loved the pain of the Father, the pain that lives in the eyes, so she made herself more and became me, all of me, all of my smallest parts. She grew, and her love and pain grew in my soul. I loved my little hole, my pipe to call my own.

I don't care about places. She was there in me in that hole, so it was a good place.

The Father passes above to bring the parts of the Mother together, and I know it is time. All the parts of me sing out in Her voice, ready to join with the rest. So I will go to Her. She is where Sephiroth is and what is in me will go to Her will. The pain that lives in the soul. So I must leave my hole, the hole I don't care about, and go to another place, a place far from here where I shall stand and wait for Great Sephiroth to come from beneath the ground and fly beyond the water again.

But did that happen?

Is it going to happen?

Sometimes I'm not sure. I don't care about time, green dreams of time struck with red pain in my soul.

Shadows walk by my pipe. They think they're real sometimes, but they know nothing of the pain. So they aren't real.

I don't care about shadows.

Once. No. Not once. Twice I saw a shadow that was no shadow. A shadow that thought it was real, and it almost was. It came to me in the place where we waited for the Father to come up from the earth. And it came to me in my pipe, my little hole where I was visited by a mad half-shadow. I remember the dream of it, and how it looked at my arm and saw the mark of the White Messiah, the mark He said was Two. Because I was Two I was the first, he said, then sent me away to my pipe to wait for the half-shadow and the time of Reunion.

Reunion. Lovely pain.

When I was in the place where we waited I shuffled and stomped and called out for Great Sephiroth. The time was soon, the time for all of my parts to sing their red pain of the Mother and come together with the Father. My cells cried out to be one again with Mother Jenova and they tasted of acid.

When the White Messiah came to us, loved us, carried us in his dark, dark room to the place where we waited. He knows nothing of the pain of Sephiroth. His is as Sephiroth is. Is and is not. With and without. Messiah.

He becomes. Becomes the White Messiah, tainted with red that grows and grows. Will his White all be red one day? The day the pain of the Mother that lives and grows in his soul devours him entirely.

Did that happen yet? Maybe it did. But he is the White Messiah and he brings us to Sephiroth, to Reunion.

Once, when the pain of the Mother had not yet come, when the red dream had not been dreamed, there was only the green. He put the green in my dreams, the dreams in my eyes, where the pain of the Father lives. He came and He told me of Great Sephiroth. He told me how I would show them. How I would bring him power by becoming one with Great Sephiroth. Enough power to defeat even Gast. Then he gave me his mark and began the pain.

I did not like the pain. The pain was no red dream breaking through the green. But the pain grew, and I loved the pain. My lovely, red, spicy pain that lives in my soul. The green pain, the red pain.

That is what I told the half shadow when he came to me in my hole. I told him of the pain, the Mother, the Father. I told him of the Reunion that would one day come, and Great Sephiroth coming to bring the parts of Mother Jenova together again. I told him of the eyes and the soul. And the dreams.

My heart is a balloon with red and green streaks, rising into a sulphur sky.

I told him that. He did not hear.

How could he hear? He did not have the red pain. How could a half-shadow know of the Reunion? All he heard was nothing, and he babbled and spat nonsense.

He was not real, so time came and washed him away. I wonder where he will wash up again.

Gold hair, where, where?

I remember where. The White Messiah told us so. He told us, the real ones, the ones who tasted the pain and loved the Mother. We were to go to Reunion. In a hole that was like my hole, a hundred thousand holes. The crater where the light spun and twisted like time, there would be Reunion.

So I told the half-shadow, when the time tide brought him to where we waited. And he heard this time, for he had known Jenova. He still was not real, his soul harboured no pain, but he was of the Father and the Father had given him Jenova's kiss, so he knew enough now. He knew that Reunion was soon.

How could he know, though, that Reunion was a place where the lights turned and danced, where a line of real ones in black robes would walk through fire to be one again?

He didn't. He had no red dreams that whispered in his ears and tasted like death.

Death, best.

Left.

We left the place where we waited and crawled and dove and jumped, and when we could do no more, the White Messiah came to us. His pain had grown so beautiful then, more beautiful than when he had come to the pipe. More beautiful than when he gave me the red pain that lives in my soul. For he had no pain, then. But now he had pain, and it swam in his whiteness like blood.

I dreamt of blood.

Blood red, dream red.

The call of the red dream.

North.

I don't care about the cold. The cold is a white, but it is not of the White Messiah. How can that be, when green is the Father and red is the Mother? How can white not be the Messiah?

Truly, he is a mystery.

I don't care about mysteries.

I can see him now, the Father. The Father who I care about, who is the whole world. And with him he carries the trace of the Mother, who is also the world. They are both the world, a red and green orb, shattering again and again and again. Will I shatter when I give myself to the Reunion?

I try to run, but I only shamble. That is enough.

Once I shambled. I left the place of the Messiah, the place where I was fed the pain, and I stumbled and fell into a hole. It was my hole, and I lay in the hole and dreamed of Reunion.

Now is Reunion.

And Great Sephiroth, Father Sephiroth is here. And he raises his sword, the death he carried when he passed above my pipe. And it lowers, freeing the red within to come out, to run, to play, to glorious, agonizing Reunion. I watched as the red came out of me and from the red, the pain of Mother Jenova left every part of me to join again with the Mother in him.

The end to all dreams.

Sephiroth smiled as he took my life.

So did I.