Wake up.

A room filled with cedar spirits and the ominous creaking of the walls. Nothing but a bed in the middle of this claustrophobic capsule that contains all your dreams. Even these thin walls can reflect your desires right back to your mind.

Open the door, and find an endless, dark drop. In front of you are weightless yet firm cobblestones of plank leading to nowhere in particular. A hop, skip and a jump and you could almost see a horizon. Or a drop to oblivion.

Invisible cities and lush rivernes littered in an endless sky. They too encapsulate everyone else’s dreams, and it seems only you decided to awaken so far.

Turn around, and your wooden prison dematerializes. A quick snap and a violent rain of lumber collapses into the abyss like misplaced dominoes.

There are all these islands of the mind, and still you stand there fixated on a drifting and barely visible vase on a distant riverne. Or that’s all you can perceive now. Somehow, you still smell the scent of carnations envelope your soul into a passionate tango. Or at least you think it does. At least you think that’s what carnations smell like. At least you think you see crumbling rocks chipping away at the riverne – any click of boulders or deforestation seems to pique your attention. Or at least you think it does.