☆ · ✧ · ☆ ✦
· ☆ ✧ · · ✧ ☆
✧ · ☆ ✧ · ·
╭─────────────────────╮
│ D R E A M │
│ G E N E R A T O R │
╰─────────────────────╯
· ✧ · ☆ · ✧ ·
☆ · ✧ · ☆
surreal narratives from the space between waking
You are standing in a train station where every platform leads to a different decade. You're in the space between waking and sleeping.
There is travelers who speak only in colors. They look at you as if they've been waiting, though not impatiently. Time works differently here. They gesture toward a door that leads wherever you need to go.
"This belongs to you," they say, or perhaps they don't say it—perhaps you simply understand. "It always has."
The walls begin to breathe slowly, peacefully.
A door appears where there was none. You walk through.
Now you find yourself in a clock tower where time flows in spirals. The travelers who speak only in colors is here too, or perhaps they never left. In dreams, presence is not about location.
You realize you are still holding a door that leads wherever you need to go. It feels right in your hands—the exact weight of something important, the precise temperature of truth.
The travelers who speak only in colors smiles—or maybe the light changes in a way that means the same thing.
Fear was just love with no place to go
You open your eyes—
But did you?