In the dream, there is a place without sound, white in every direction, where I do not know if I stand or hover. And I do not know if this is where I belong, or whether I am being shown something that will never be truly mine — for there is peace here, a life beyond life, the comfort of infinite patience in the wings, watching. And I am afraid to say it, what this place might be, as if it would break the quiet spell, and I would fall, fall, and discover that the dream is a dream. I stand as still as I can, and I wonder if I am breathing. I am filled with the notion that this is not an end, but a beginning: whatever is behind me is infinitesimally small, what is ahead I know is gloriously grand, vivid in colors I have never imagined, all beginning as this white, white that will blush in red, green, and blue to fill a world’s worth of iridescence. In the dream, I am aware that anything is possible, and it is with this feeling I awake, this feeling as if I’ve done something noble, forgetting all but the strangest hope: nothing is wasted. That is what the silence told me.