I have not yet told you about my forest. Being an inhabitant of the city myself, I am continuously surprised of the frequency with which nature comes looking for me while I sleep. In a more reasonable scenario, it is in fact myself that looks for nature, but then I would have to admit that I am lacking something in the city and I drown myself in pride far too often to admit that. That forest is not complete either way, every colour is beyond salvation, the black and white ferns wave at me, wearily. I too am not complete, my hands wave and mow, but my vision fails me. I do not have control, I am merely a puppet at the hands of an unknown force. I feel my existence, but cannot lead my own body anywhere. I stand wearily in black and white. Then colour flutters into my dream. A fiery red dress flutters around the fragile body of a young woman. She dares skipping frolicking and young in between the dark basks. I vaguely remember a deer and the fiery red in a previous dream. I panic, though too late. My gear is aimed at her too. If red was alive, it would be the colour I felt most sorry for. Dear Red, I regret. I lift my gun and hunt the young woman down.