There exists a place in space but not time where dreams can exist, free and independent of the people who selfishly cling to them. In this place lie words like naivety and hope; sometimes they string themselves up into half-formed wishes: the kind that represent the best intentions, before hubris and other motivations get in the way. The wonder of a child with his first toy; the moment when a bride and groom's eyes meet. Fleeting instants, flashes so quick that they might have never been there at all, but people cling to them - the ideals - human minds rationalizing their existence with human consciences.

The futile rationalization turns to desperation: like tendrils, snaking their way up, quavering as though struggling as they rise. They intertwine, strangling each other as they claw onwards, the twisted tentacles finding the dreams and grasping greedily at them. The veneer of goodwill crumples first, leaving holes in which they latch on, hungrily, looking for a way to rise above the rest. The more devious ones twist the ideas, changing them to suit their own purposes; those which fail fall far, and there is no sound as they hit the ground, nor pity. They were but the means to an end that is still nowhere in sight.

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