I woke up to the sound of murmurings. Of the universe, of people, of distant time and space.
Thump, thump.
"You talked in your sleep again,"
"I had a bad dream."
Small room, enclosed by four walls with a high ceiling. The walls painted nauseating marmalade and evergreen, each edges framed white. It was a house, supposedly. In my fist I felt a wrinkled small piece of paper, folded in half and half burnt. It has to stay hidden, I thought, or it would be the death of me. I went to and fro, up and down an endless staircase, the room suddenly a void ever going up and ever going down. There were people, faceless people everywhere, at every corner; and yet there were none.
The murmurings stopped for a while.
"How is that a bad dream?"
I opened my eyes. Ah, that one too.
