I write this with a sanity lost,  though as it would remain from them in the dreams as they wander. Though from them in the dream as what stands in the details of what I describe as a circle of dust. From a period,  I describe of them. It would gather among them within the place I describe,  among the circles of dust which the dream dwells. Among a surface which becomes the darkness of the dreamscape; that of when I close my eyes. In the known thoughts,  which it would become from them as they are written.  From a cerebral description which it becomes, as a dream it writes into a psychological autobiography, in notions that drawn from places that one cannot put into their memory –– as it would become of I. Beneath the years which fall within the sands dwelling,  from the children of the clay which become in the congregations as they would stand among the passages of a forgotten dream. Drawn from the truth it would become from the walking blind;  to where they become in times left in a memory which is written in dust.   From the dust I walk among the places which described as called the human limitations,  telling as one looks at a mirror and sees something without a soul in the mirror –– that reminds them that soulless person is them.  In a depths which become in a shadow told from bouts of illness, a depression,  that it becomes from them in the eyes of the nightmares told from the echoes of the dream. It becomes from a sanity lost,  becoming from them in a depths of the mind falling within a circle of dust. 
          Dwelling from the shadows that fall into places that cannot be described,  from the senses of what drawn from none.  That between a circle written in dust,  all that is seen from a pair of eyes that seem to asleep.  Beneath all that is written –– that it would become from the memories of what dwells from all the time in the world when it is shown in the circle of dust. Known from the beginning that a pair of eyes, tired and staring at the unknown. Of where it would gather from the places as I would put them to the written words,  that it would gather from them – of I. From this nervous hand,  and a dreadfully nervous mind of knowing what dwells within the nightmares –– from them in the bells as they are tolling louder than a deafening thunder.   In a nervous hand as the fingers run across the keys,  looking as one writes to keep their sanity – or what was the very last of it.  From them in the eyes that close to sleep,  the thing that greets them are within the vast darkness of a landscape that a human cannot begin to describe. Of where they dwell within the landscape of the mind belonging to I. Nervously drawn,  and nervously written –– it would become from the dreams as they dwelled in the psyche of a man who had a unstable condition of the mind. Ominous shadows become from the ancient years, from them in dreams which become the beginning of a morbid genesis –– from the beginning of the dream they come from the words as they are written from I.  Desolate–– brought from a silent whisper told from the dawn of memory,  from them in the perspective and changing of views where they become among the vast landscapes.  As where they gathered,   I put to the words in a written page while the sanity I fought to keep drifted away.  From them in the very places that echo what was written,  to them in time where they burn into the edges of one’s sanity.
          In the places that dwell in the mind of I.  From the psychological autobiography that drawn from the dreams to become the nightmares living within the sanity of a waking mind.  In the patterns as they become from a written and documented factor from dreams as they follow from an echo of sleep.  Not even in the duration of years that I could begin to describe this dream in a narrated form,  though with the frayed ends of my sanity dwindling away would be the echoes what create –– from the dream as what lives within the body while it sleeps.  When in time when this is read back –– the details would fall away from the senses;   when they wait –– from wayward beginnings when they gathered in both time and space. From written nightmares become the details of a psychological autobiography,  in them which become a life walking around as they had a supernatural ability to stand on their own.  From them which become the echoes of the mind,  in the dreams that become from the details that dwell from I.   In the dreams as they find the unpleasant truth staring back at them,  knowing in a landscape of a nature so grotesque that man doesn’t wish to describe it.  Yet drawn into the pages of dust become the dream descending from an echo that fades from a tormented psychological autobiography.  As the dream brings about the Nercopsychology,  dwelling in the eyes of a stormbringer ––  beneath echoes told within the eyes of the children of time.  Within the pages of a psychological autobiography,  the sleep cycles which remain among the disturbed;   as it would dwell in circles of stone. 
           I find myself in the circle of the dust,  standing before myself in one form or another ––  with the voices coming from the sky.   In the sleep it would draw from the desolate.  Beneath them as they would gather,   one cannot hear the prayers spoken by the children of dust –– as gathered around the silence within the clay.  Desolate ––  what comes into the cycle of a foreboding dreamscape,  and shapes itself into an entity that one cannot begin to fathom. Descending into the darkness one cannot begin to relate,  not even the words that would come from I.  Into a darkness that falls with the cycles of sleep it would be described as such –– to where no man cannot really see what details remain in their dreams.  Further descending,   In the places that would become a genesis of sorts.  Beneath the places that would awaken by  midnight hour,  as the dreams would draw from the imaginations of overheated gothic writers –– from them become the dreams as they lead into their sleep and a darkness which is the most frightening haunted house of them all,   their mind.  In their mind become the dreams that are yet to be written,  that in them  and drawn upon –– are the unwritten cycles. In pages drawn from journals of years past,  the old nightmares have their way of awakening in an imagination. In the years that festered and waited,  among the beginnings  and still awakened to be written in the perspective of I.   Echoed from the desolate –– it would stand among the places to be drawn from the unknown.    Among the vast descriptions become the areas that are written within the inner depths of the mind,  the looming dream as it is written within a psychological autobiography –– looming from the thoughts as they would haunt the mind of I. 
         “We are the one watching you walk past here,   we know that you are the one who is asleep ––– thoughts that are yours are also the thoughts that dwindle within our minds,” respond the children.   It seems they were part of the dream for some reason, that I was not able to put my finger on this.  Not as of this time,  the time when it would wander within the mind as I am writing this.   They seemed to range from the ages of 11-12 years of age––like they were no longer alive,  or they would not say to me how they passed on to the next.  “This is where one can see when they are sleeping,  the place when they wander among the dead and the living,”  they relate,  “we are the ones who wander among the dreams as everyone around us are asleep – we were the ones who dwindle within the churchyard after everyone else around us die.   Often you find us playing hide and seek where the game would last for hundreds of years.  Those years when you were in the hospital what do you describe of your dream, the details that you found yourself among the desolate fields and hear our laughing – the wandering around within the cemetery gates as we played.   We don’t even remember how we died,  but we know is this ––– we are what they call a specter.   Where you see us –– the reason being we wander from dream to dream in the sleep of the living.   Dreams allow the living to communicate with the dead in one form or another,  though you might want to talk to us –– we are the ones who see you though.”
         One’s dreamscape are a disturbing place to fathom even if they are within the mind as they are written before the senses;  known from them as they drawn from a psychological autobiography––in the places which stare back,  as a mirror into the unknown. From the thoughts as tormented as the old premise telling of them which become the taxing narrative.  In them which become in the circle of dust when they echo into the mind of I. Descending from shadows as they fall into the detail that falls into the sketching of the stones –– each stone congregated as a cemetery marker,  and each marker represented a child that was deceased.  Each child in the cemetery playing Hide and Seek for another hundred years to come.  When they come in a desolate time –– beneath the silence as they seen,   known before the eyes as they were closed and sleeping; all that would remain of the frozen sleep while they stared at the reminders of the dead as they roam within the cemetery as 100 year old children.  Desolate would remain among the clay,  standing –– as I look on with some form of speechless action,  and from my eyes where they were seen;  nothing could begin to fathom it.  I awakened at some point –– in the mind where they rest as they are written. As the moon glows in an aura blue,   when they know that the dreams are coming soon to pass.  From the dreams that I cannot speak, silences is what floods everything around as one appears to be awake within the grotesque dreamscape.   From the eyes as they write,  in the perspective of I,   all the shadows that are seen in the dreams and left behind.  As when the silence is left,  the told in the mind of emptiness is dwindling within –– and from pages as where they dwell among the passages written in the perspective of I.  Into the eyes which are drawn into the cycles of sleep and in memory which become from the circle of the stones –– in them where the children of the clay play  Hide and  Seek.   Descending from them becomes step closer to the cemetery of stones –– one step closer to the dreams that keep one awake,  and yet it would become from the infinity where the children of the clay continue to play their games. Whisper their prayers into the times of no tomorrow, in the place they gather within the mourning of tears of that becomes of the souls of the begotten.  A dream as it is written from the words becoming the psychological autobiography,  when the hours fade from the time as the body falls in and out of the waking world.
          Into the void it draws,  as when they are becoming from wayward periods which the body awakens and remembers nothing. Though it was from the nothingness and silence the details from the dream become the most vivid and haunting.  In the beginning of them where they become the most vivid,  and in the details draw from the visitation of the children that run around and play their case games in the cemetery for another hundred years and more. In the words as one tries to find to describe them it would become from the echoes of silence,  depths from them become the memories that faded into the lasting existence. From the lasting existence it would be penned in the details that would become of the grotesque;  and the dreams that become from them within the other side –– and the sound that is heard are the laughter from the children of the clay.   In the circle of dust I find myself standing,  looking on as the horrors from the past had their way of finding themselves into the truth of absolutes.  In a form describing the details of a psychological autobiography it would be seen as such, in memories and dreams that drain the body as an infinite sickness without any form of cure.   From cycles –– sleep which brings into the silence of the dark that comes as one closes their eyes, and the dream that greets them within the places described of the unknown.
           Time ticks as echoes that leave a whisper in darkness fading. In where they descend from the echo in silence.  Of time when they gathered in the dreams that belong to I,   in the years that follow from them in memories over the years –– watching the children play for another hundred to another two-hundred years. Desolate,  it becomes from them in the manner of thoughts which dwell from the surfaced patterns within a journal as they are written –– from torments as they become,  in dreams which they remain. In them of beginnings that wait without a central end – of them which become the death of absolutes,  as they would run within the garden of stones.    In the garden where they case without limit,  gathered among the places where the dream begins and another ends ––  becoming from the things of the evident and existence.   From them which I observe of them playing in the holy water,  on graves which read the dates they’ve died – and some of them noted on the tomb saying,  March 15, 1999,  the day of the horrific Amtrak disaster.   Drawn from the dreams as seen from the perspective of I,   told in the etchings of a journal telling of them as they were documented.   From etchings –– it would draw into the details that lead from a pair of weary eyes as I write from a sanity lost.