I had a dream a few years ago. The whole thing is pretty vague - something of war and death. The ending, though, is fresh in my memory. I was laying on the floor wrapped in my blanket in a house on top of a hill. The house was surrounded by several others just like it. Tall, old-fashion, victorian style houses. This house in particular - my home - was virtually unscathed by the battle; save for a huge chunk of the roof and south wall missing, leaving a gaping hole in the attic where I lay. From this hole in the attic you could look out over the rest of the city. A scene of a relentless attack. The winter midnight landscape glowed with the burning remnants of a once thriving community. The air outside was heavy with the smell of death and destruction, but did not penetrate the borders of these walls. Only the heat. The warm, soothing flames. I lay on the attic floor in silence. It was the most comforting dream I can remember. When I awoke wrapped in my blanket, I felt like a child wrapped snuggly in his mother's arms.