Eve of the Seventh Day

Insomniac programmers, heartbroken college students, women dreaming of their deceased mothers, one after another lie down on the sofa and let the needle engrave their dreams into vinyl records. I thought I was helping until the girl in the white dress showed up. She said she wanted to sell a dream, and the content of the dream was: day after day, without end. After the recording, she did not pay, leaving only one sentence - "Don't sleep tonight." That night, the record player turned on its own. A blue butterfly emerged from the record and flew into my throat. Then I woke up. But the world I woke up in was not right. Pedestrians outside stopped in mid-air, and the words on the books were flowing backwards. Thirty-six records were stacked on the bottom of the bookshelf, each of which was engraved with the last words left by "I". None of them survived the seventh day. And I am the thirty-seventh one. Butterflies in my chest. When it's quiet, I can still pretend to be human. But I know it's waiting - waiting for me to turn into a record, waiting for the next person to open the door and say he wants to sell a dream