Falkor landed on the ridge. I’m pretty
starving. There are some mushrooms
the ravens dropped down, but the 

shrooms have given me strange 

dreams. Perhaps it's the altitude. 

It’s hard to tell if what I see 

is true or a trick. I am trying to

believe in faith. Is faith real? Falkor 

is resting. He needs it. Tomorrow 

we are heading out, again, over
an endless mountain range. I lie down
against Falkor’s side. My hands behind
my head, looking up to clouds
that all look like flying Falkors.