It's late. Light is sleeping.
( [nsfw] the things we don't admit to ourselves. )

[It's late, possibly - it's impossible to tell how much time is passing in the mansion - and it's dark, very dark, because there are no windows and the lights are off. Light is in bed, asleep, but not resting. His eyes are flickering quickly behind his eyelids ( Read more... )

Last night, Light dreamed of spiders. He doesn't usually mind them: in fact, he likes them - the way they dance and trap and hunt, and scurry on too many legs: the way they spin and weave, calling form and structure out of their own being like prayer. The way most people fear them, when really, they're so insignificant.
( yeah, this is not one for the arachnophobes )

In the new dream, Light is still dead, but he doesn't have a body, as he does in the mansion: he's a ghost, drifting from one place to the next, free as the wind. He feels calm, rested, at peace: it's all over, done with, but for some reason he doesn't mind. Perhaps it's because emotions and desires are a trick of the body ( Read more... )

Light hasn't slept well, since he died ( Read more... )