He doesn't please at all. Just gathering the words and images slowly dripping into his mind like the slow-forming of stalagmites puddling up from a cavern floor into something coherent and meaningful takes far too much energy. A swell of dizziness and the sensation of falling overtake him, even though such a thing - logically - is utterly impossible given he can feel the shape of the pillows and mattress pressing into his back.

No, he wasn't falling at all. He was...

"Flying."

Which doesn't sound correct given his own struggles to master the wings this world has bestowed upon him, but he knows it to be right. His eyes blink halfway open as he tries to focus on the nature of that flight, the sun-touched world whisking by below him, the joy of it, the swell of eager anticipation.

"Somewhere unfamiliar, on wings that were not mine. Yet I knew it. I was going to meet someone. In the garden."