One can forget that he is dreaming. That is the danger, sometimes. I lost myself in a dream last night. It was a cold place, a place I don’t want to go back to, but that’s silly, isn’t it? I’ve never really been there, so how can I go back? How can I go back unless I dream?
There were people there, strange people who hid their eyes. He was surprised, I think, that I could dream him up; it was best, he said, if I didn’t see their eyes for not, not until the end.
What end had he in mind? But it was a dream, all my own machinations; whatever end I feared, it would be my own work, right? My own thoughts? Not really real, except in the moment. If there was anything hidden behind their dark eyeglasses, it would have been my own creation, something brought out of my own imagination.
I, and only I, have spooked myself. Now, as night falls again, I fear what I might do to myself, what I might conceive in the dark; what the darkness might hide.
Tale Told 