In dreams, we often find ourselves traversing landscapes that shift beneath the barest memory of our conscious thoughts, roads twisting almost impossibly, like corridors in a house never meant to end. There are those nights when we wake with skin prickling with remnants of the foggy yet vivid impressions left behind, breaths hitches echoes of unseen apparitions.
The door that led me, or seemed to lead me, to the vast expanse of an impossible library, books lined upon shelves like sentinels guarding the secrets of a forgotten age, stood ajar much longer than your typical wooden portal should allow, its creaking echoing a note, perhaps the D# of a dream sequence, resonating within chest and spirit alike.
And yet, once more, I stepped into that labyrinth, not recalling whether I had been there before or perhaps would one day return, labyrinthine in nature and infinite in its impressions, lights flickering in corridors too narrow to hold the weight of space and time, whispers carried on the breath of a dimension beyond tangible understanding, cryptic messages waiting just beyond the reach of senses dulled by waking life.