Zexion was dreaming. He was dreaming a dream unlike any he had ever dreamt before, and it felt strange to him. He dreamt of the things that had happened, and of the things that had not, and of things that may yet occur (though as to whether or not they would was anybody's guess). He dreamt of a strange and fantastic world, and of a castle on a hill near a vast lake. He dreamt of a library, shelves stacked upon shelves stretching high towards the ceiling, filled to the brim with books, and of a very old, and very wise man who watched over it. He dreamt of Larxene. And he dreamt of his son, of little Mortimer, who had made him experience the closest thing to joy he had felt since before he lost his heart. It was a good dream, and if it were it not for the fact that Mortimer needed him, Zexion would have gladly spent the rest of his non-existence lost within its depths. However, it has been proven time and time again that all good things must come to an end. But not yet. The night was not over, and Zexion was determined to hold on to his dream for as long as he could before rising.
After all, good dreams are hard to come by.
Everything is made up of Light and Darkness, and Time is no exception. Though on this world the sky remained dark, on others the Sun was rising. The Worlds were waking from their slumber and a new day was dawning, an unwritten page of the masterpiece that is History. The night had passed. Day had come.
