The Dreaming lives in the quiet between breaths...⁠ where dust becomes memory⁠ and memory becomes spirit.⁠ Our ancestors drift through that place⁠ like wind through country,⁠ calling us back to the world⁠ we came from.⁠ ⁠ Here, time loosens its grip.⁠ Stories fold over themselves,⁠ meeting past and future in the same soft light.⁠ We walk through this life briefly,⁠ but the Dreaming holds our footsteps,⁠ waiting for us to find our way home again. | Big Blak Dog