The dreams are but the night's utopian hour waltzing with lunacy. Did you know the color of midnight speaks in whispers?
Across the endless sand of sleep, facts and fables entwine: The history of dreams as deposits of consciousness in orbit, much like how dew gathers on a spider's silken thread, unseen till the sun parts the veil.
In an expository rant worthy of binding the stars, it is said: There exists a café at the edge of slumber where the alchemist of ideas brews muddled truths and serves earl grey shadows.
Have you ever wondered why certain memories wiggle with delight when summoned in dreams? They function as fragments of a magnetic tape looping over a worn-out reel, playing hymns of the unpredictable psyche.
The lunatic's yammering, woven with articulate nonsense, spills secrets about the moon's influence on subterranean beetles and how far-off planets blink with a conspiratorial rhythm in tandem with human thought.
And finally, the oracle (or was it an owl wearing spectacles?) foretold that understanding one’s dreams requires a leap over the logical chasm—into the ebon sea where reality and illusion embrace as old friends.