On the day when the whole world stopped dreaming, I thought I was just another insomniac.
Later I discovered that out of eight billion people, I was the only one who could still see pictures in the dark. Black water, red moon, countless people lying on their backs under the water, opening and closing their lips, trying to tell me something.
I dare not say. Can't say. I hid in an old residential building in this old southern city. I worked as a librarian during the day and locked myself in a 40-square-meter rental house at night, like a clam with its shell tightly covered.
But my dreams overflow.
I dreamed of a white cat, and the next day it was photographed in the corridor next door. I dreamed that there was a note in the crevice of the bookshelf. When I woke up, the note was really there, with handwriting I had never seen written on it. I dreamed of a man in a long dark coat standing on the street corner. The next morning, I saw him at the corner of the stairs.
I started to be afraid to sleep. But every time I close my eyes, my consciousness still slips into a realm that shouldn't exist.
I don't know if this is a gift or a curse.
All I knew was that something was crawling out of my dream. And I don't know what will be released into this world the next time I open my eyes.
Concept: This is a story about memory, identity and the boundaries of the subconscious. When the wall between dreams and reality begins to leak, how can a person stay awake in fear and find someone in loneliness with whom he can face the darkness with his eyes open?