Malakai sighed, massaging his forehead with his fingertips as he worked to get a coherent explanation in English. "It is not the content, I'm so concerned with, as the persistence. The settings change, sometimes, as does the age of the other man. But it is always fire. Consuming the landscape. While fire is no more deadly to myself, than it is to you, it is an extremely... powerful visual. And I have the distinct knowledge that they are my fault. The fires, the deaths in them. But the one man, who I always recognize as the same person- I do not know who- always survives. The only survivor.
"There have been times I have been lucid enough to realize I should speak with him, but I always wake before I get to him." By the time he finished his speech, the coffee was brought over. Reaching in his pocket, Malakai pulled out a small vial, setting the glass inside the cup, still capped, to warm up. He'd grown in the habit of carrying around shots of blood, never much, but enough to keep him coherent, if he was going to be in crowds of people for too long.