Sleeper(s)
About a writer and one of his poems, about dreams within dreams, but she hadn’t really been paying attention and couldn’t for the life of her recall his name.
It wasn’t important anyway; the darkness was reaching upwards, into her head: filling up her cheeks, and stuffing her brain full of cotton wool. She could see nothing now, except a murky gloom. But she could still hear the jets of those planes, which had replaced the—dead?—birds and their song. She could hear something just above that, too, the sound of familiar voices calling.
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