“Go back to sleep,” she says quietly, her back to you. You lie there, and hear her pen tapping on the inkwell. The quiet ticks remind you of a clock. She ignores you, dear reader, as your eyes flutter back and forth from these words to the sliding, sloping black tunnel of deep sleep.
“But I’ve never read one of your stories while awake before,” you mumble into the pillow, trailing off for a moment. “We only get that privilege when we sleep… for a reason… too distracting.” You shake your head slowly, feeling the words of the story actually collide with your conscious mind, existing simultaneously in dream and not, ludic resonance mixing and matching in a non-lucid soup of the two narratives entangled.
One thread: these words sliding into confusion. The other: your sleep-deprived mind, barely hearing her quill on the paper. Or is the quill in the story, and your mind is the description? You try to say something, but the exhaustion pulls you down, down, down. Too tired to summon the energy to understand anything.
The taste of that sweet, black oblivion calls. And the dizzy tunnel of words swirls everything around inside it. Her voice echoes hollowly as she mutters something to herself, and your ears are dimmed and dulled as you float off to sleep. With great effort, you manage to say “what” — or did you only think that? No, there was no speaking out loud. There was no thought, either. You only read the word.
When you read that word, what happens? What do you understand? “Dreams of another person?” she asks, her words no longer audible but instead text on the page in front of you.
Now you are certain that the threads have reversed.
You’re reading the story, and the ticking of her quill into the inkwell is only words, causing imagined sound. You can stop reading the story, but the velvet touch of sleep won’t come.