There is nothing to do. Except end. The dreams disappear.
I disappear because I am a dream, too. I am my own imagination. I did not exist before I existed. In one dream, I remember dying. I asked myself as I felt myself vanishing, would I become me again?
The wall of paintings. The pond asking people to drown. Did she ever want her swing to come down? She wanted to be the air.
Let’s go to sleep. Let’s not think about the end.
Let’s not think about sunlight at night.