Sometimes, I dream of a small house at the end of the world. It's not large, big enough for one, and it sits in the center of an island. Every time, I awaken in a small cot and carry on the same routine: rise, stretch, grab a blanket, and head outside. The air is damp and chilly, with the wind whipping up sprays of salt. I clutch the blanket tighter. The sight of endless ocean before me is quickly dwarfed in appeal by the thunderous, continuous roar from behind the house. My steps are quick, well known at this point, and I take in the softness of the grass with quiet contentment. On the other side of the house, my backyard of sorts, is the end of the world. A mountainous waterfall that disappears into nothing...

That's my best guess, anyway. I wouldn't want to check, these dreams are too nice to squander by diving into the abyss. Instead, I sit down, wrapped in the comforting warmth of the thick blanket, and watch. The sparkling of the spray, the sheer majesty of that much water pouring off into the sky... it never gets old.

Sometimes I wish someone was here to share it with.

The island, fairly unique in its placement, essentially amounts to a large rock that protrudes slightly out past the edge of the falls. Uncomfortable, if not for the soft grass cushioning the top. Another, smaller rock troubles the water nearby. It's the source of most of the spray that makes it to the island. I've always wondered, with that swirling, foamy mess sending sprays here all the time, how the island stays so green.

My sitting location isn't for the faint of heart, as all inspections have indicated that it isn't actually supported by anything. I sit atop a large overhang that remains remarkably stable despite what must be some serious erosion. It's oddly satisfying to relax in a place of extreme danger. What is risk in a dream? What does a god fear in his own world?

... A god, hah. I hold out my hand. The spray catches immediately upon it. It feels real... cold and salty... a god could make it warm and pure. Of course, the water hardly cares what I want it to be, remaining its sullen, salty self.

A god could at least have a fire.

A god could fall into that darkness and feel right at home.

A god would.

Time passes as I sit in quiet contemplation. The sun sets into the ocean behind me, framing the world in a last, golden display of color and beauty, before there is nothing but a soft moonlight on the water and the gentle twinkling of stars. Somewhere, in the back of my mind, something nags at me, but I care little right now. Anything can be taken care of when I wake. After all, with such a long day behind me, I deserve the rest. I close my eyes and enjoy the abyss.

Except...

The nagging intensifies. What did I do yesterday? Dreams are always so fuzzy when you try to remember...what, exactly? It was important, I know that much. My job? Business as usual, so to speak. I work as a programmer. They say do what you love, and I love problem solving.

Or, more accurately, I apparently enjoy beating my head against awful documentation, asshole designers, and making excuses to my boss. “It’s the life.” I mutter, smiling wryly.

No, not that. No stunning developments in the romance front, that's always been a mixed bag… and now, quite an empty one.

Like an incessantly ringing telephone, the nagging in my head reaches a crescendo of aggravation, to the point where I actually yell "WHAT?!" at the sky. Like an idiot.

This action becomes significantly less idiotic the moment the sky answers: "It's about damn time! Jump already, fuck."