Each nightfall, after every moonrise, after the rising Zs clear the room and float off into the clouds, the dreamer dreams an entire dreamworld, mostly consistent from night to night, the details only changing when dream-scrutinized.
The dreamer dreams an entire dream life. It is fantastic, replete with an indescribable beauty that hearkens an evanescent sunset radiating out smiling lines of joy, each twirling with another, dancing in a never ending perfect meter.
The dreamer dreamt an entire many-generational progeny, a family whose form endlessly shifted yet always stayed a pleasing, familiar shape. The dreamer sometimes imagined they together were coined the feel-goods by their neighbors—the blissful bunch—the jubilee of their jamboree cul-de-sac.
Each sunup, the dreamer convenes with more-physical feel good fellows—the extant, lucid lords of the mountaintop that hums sweet—where each plucks idea into existence, crafting the most fanciful forms—the most beautiful, tachyonic, backwards un-conflagrations—out of etheric ephemera that pass by the eye.
“I feel like too much of a tone setter lately. I think for this epoch I’d like to work within externally imposed parameters,” the dreamer daydreamt.
Just then, the dreamer had a realization.
And, now, let’s go back to the world, perhaps this time ever after…