Dead center of the temple the daemon challenges any and aught that dares cross blades with the shadowy steel, those scarlet blue rays through which I espied the rainforest in a somber mood, an aureole region consumed by the pyre, the focal point of every pillar, plank and patch, the surrogate of any audiovisual emission given shape within the prison world. The flames, tempered as ever, emit an awful shriek perceivable to only the beholder, the dream catcher: deigned to eternally sustain the caprice, to face the faceless cobra, the one eyed patron of the house of dead warriors (the mortuary of the most valiant of warriors), confined to the citadel of fiery fountains, every minutiae experienced briefly yet chained to the moment at an infinitely fine resolution, felt at the uttermost detestable extent - and mind, there isn’t a tangible limit to the dream catcher’s porousness. The owl derisively hoofs, the hoof amplified until hardly bearable, the plumes multiply to a brink of suffocation and consume nearly all breathable strata, shorted only by the legions of voracious pests which even the dreamcatching aprons cannot subvert. Yet no one but, undertakes the weight, Bountiful not for blithe but battery. The rain will not efface the reeking residue till morning, too exhausted by the ever growing entropy enshrouding our waning numbers. Such is the prison world, the realm of the dream catcher and the daemon.