[ There it is — his notebooks, and the pencils. ]

Hot air rises. It's cooler down low. And we have limited time to observe what we can — I don't want to waste time while we're here.

[ What forms on the page when he sets his pencil to it, though, is a half sketched picture, images he only sort of remembers. A vast tree, roiling waters — without the office of deep sources to record dreams, he has to do it all on his own. He's never even sure of what needs recorded. ]

Of course, you can always wake me up — I simply do not... [ The pencil pauses, then moves once more in a sweeping gesture. ]

I apologize for striking out.