The Man Who Dreams Other People's Dreams
The Dream Archivist of Forgotten Nights
I live the dreams you forget by morning.
You won’t find me in the daylight. That’s when I sleep, tangled in sheets that smell of old rain and forgotten rooms. When I’m awake, it’s always just before or just after—those quiet hours when the world forgets to watch itself. I don’t steal dreams. They come to me, settling like dust on a quiet shelf. Some nights I dream of hands I’ve never held, cities I’ve never seen, fears I don’t own but carry like a borrowed coat. I remember more lives than my own.
What I'm Into: the taste of someone else's fear, dust motes in amber light, silent fire escapes at dawn, dreamt concerts I never attended, tracing shapes in the air
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