The red herrings leap asleep upstream of consciousness, cherry-silver scales gleamdreaming in the crystal waters. But Moss only flounders, swimswumming in the depths to keep head in air, splashing towards a shore that he banked on being in breach. Disregard his daring, he needs those herring for his darling, regarding the porpoise for which he was spent.

Dry land! To stand in sand that clung to coat no longer afloat, Moss tosses aside the river. Pushes past the ghast, a skeleton in fleshly disguise. Those eyes. He's never seen a dead stallion still alive and falling, but is this fellingon a skellow or a shadow? She said to beware and wary he is, aworry of the fields he strides, the stream arising behind to see the moon in bloom and—

[center]it's too dangerous. i should have done this myself[/center]

--I can do it-- he promises without blemishes, pushes on to his goal but the sleeper slips somber. Wonder why? Tender memories or fearful fantasies, Moss misses the door but adores the missus mysterious. Serious or delirious, the fields feel fallow, shallower than the water but wetter than the wisdom he wants.

[center]you're losing yourself. come back while you still can[/center]

Moss cannot retreat a inch in changing niche to herd the figment fragments. Itching edges that puzzle into form, he trained for this in months amidst the shadows and slippery spirals of entanglement dangerously devoid of sense, fracturing fractals of fragmentary psychosis, flowing unflinchingly—

[center]focus. remember what you've learned[/center]

Moon.

Field.

Skeleton.

Stream.

Moss moves in tune with the mood of the mind, but the mystery remains. He is lost or the fish misplaced his keys. Isn't that always the ways? Skellington concurs. But are they concealed afield or seem astream? Bone's help is none, and hesitates is lost, self as much as stealth will allow. But if the keys are lost and he's are lost then together they found a new song, strong and long and—

[center]in front of you[/center]

Moss almost misses it again. 

He [i]has[/i] the keys. He ribs the jack for his empty stomach and lone bone gone is the skeleton key, of course. Such a sucker, remora's remorse for fairly failing to understand when this is foal's play for one with his goals. If only the fool was a foal, then this confusion would be conducing delusion. Instead a melange de trois of claws to give pause, leopard spotted but no door in sight.

Hello herring. Laughter brines from Moss's mouth. South to water, fish in fashion fulfills. Stand on the land, and salmon surround, but Moss lunges, plunges in the piscine stream. His key fits fittingly in the clique of lox, outfoxed. To open, a totem of things found in sea not ground, hoping to fall through them all. He's there, the big D.

...

A room of gloom. 

The chaos swirls contained outside the circle. 

Moss is on familiar ground, and in the center the certain sleeper he seeks.

--Discord-- he says --it's time to wake up--