You wake wanting to scream, but somehow you don't.
You lay in silence, a bit awed at the exhaustion from running through unknown European back alleys.
You stare blankly, upwardly, afraid that the person you grieved has actually passed.
You toss, scanning quickly the darker corners of your room, ensuring that the blackened silhouette is just a lamp.
And then you wait for the nightmare to become real or to reveal itself as less than. Sometimes wide-eyed. Sometimes in dreams.