Of course in my current state it was hard to recognize me for me—though anyone that knew me must see the resemblances or the signature of my art.

Nobody knew me that well, really.

Actually, being that this was the city promenade, many didnâ€t realize I was a real person at all—I was just a walking balloon, which was only mildly unusual.

Of course, once we got to Carnival Square itâ€d be different.

The dreams werenâ€t mine.

Now, a lot of the random thoughts that flicker through a sleeping personâ€s mind are indistinguishable from the white noise to me—those thoughts are off limits, I guess.

But when the sleeping mind puts together something like a narrative—a chain of thoughts, not just scattered ones—those I pick up. Whether I wanted to or not, at least within a certain range, the dreams of a living mind spread out like tentacles, stretching out, latching on, draining into me.

And I felt bad about it, because to the waking mind, those things are personal. Sure, some people share their dreams—but even if they donâ€t self-censor, they do fail to remember.

Itâ€s weird how coy the sleeping mind is with the waking one when itâ€s so brazen in its broadcast.

Not to mention, dreams can be some pretty weird stuff.

When it was just me, well—there were a lot of games of pool in the student center when there were people, and a lot of sitting outside watching it when there wasnâ€t anyone.

Today was a day for sitting outside, and I watched students go back and forth, fending off the weather as they rushed between classes.

I sat back, ignoring the groan of the chair under me. Rainy days are sleepy days. I know I slept till evening, when thunder started rolling in as well…

As darkness accumulated I gave up on the rain and went home to sleep.

I woke up in my own house.

So, someone knew where I lived.

So, theyâ€d probably gotten somebody out.

So I hoped.

Theyâ€d left me a pot of water, which I was grateful for—I ached all over and didnâ€t feel like getting up at all.

But I wanted to know what happened. Maybe they were still here?

“Hello!” I called out.

It was the same older maccan from the northern circle that came in from my front room.

“I was, ah, appreciating your art.” The hesitation was clear, even through the magic that made his speed seem slower.

It does seem to have that effect on people. It makes people think.

I hope so, anyway. Itâ€s hard to read emotions at half speed.

Sometimes it gets to be too much, and you just have to take a break.

Itâ€s all right if they see that you have to go out back to collect yourself, to keep yourself from crying.

They say itâ€s understandable, though they donâ€t actually understand the reason.

Some peopleâ€s fates just canâ€t be improved, however hard you try.

You know who they are.

And some days they all come in together.

Itâ€s hard to take.

Not crying is actually the easy part—thereâ€s one easy fix, which is to find a target.

Sadness is holding on to pain.

But sadness with a target is anger.

So I took a break, sometimes, to be properly angry. There was a dumpster behind the shelter that had many a dent in it from my bad days.

Usually I made sure there was no one around before taking out my frustration. I thought I had that day, as well, but while I was waling away at the dumpster a soft voice came, saying, “Excuse me, miss?”