The dreams are dotted with fairy lights, like glittering birds flying into the sun. The nights are shorter and the darkness is as thick as a sheet. The dreams are of stories; stories that I create with wide sweeping strokes. They are of cold, snowed in houses and warm brown sweaters. The dreams are dense with a wayward hope that surfaces only when the mind slows down a little.

The glass-panes are fuzzy with the rainwater and smog. I have to wipe out a little smear to look outside. In the brightly coloured dreams, I look out from this little smear window and see the whole place buzzing with a hundred people. Some are wearing mufflers and some carry beach umbrellas.

The men have rolled up tents tucked under their arm. The children have balloons tied to their backpacks. As the electric blue rain drips out of the sky, they hitch up their shelter and start singing. I am not sure what they sing, but their mouths open and shut in harmony.

The little sojourns between two chaotic days are covered in yellow wool. As I open it up, and stand amidst the vivacious fabric, the night peels away. What lies beneath is a long, twisted episode of something that I may not always remember, but will almost always appreciate.