As I slipped into the world of dreams once again, it was like sinking into a sea of shadows.
I was adrift on the currents of unconsciousness, knowing that I was dreaming but unable to interact, unable to wake up.
It was now a familiar sensation, this lucidity. I was a ghost, an observer of a story that was not my own.
In my dream, I was in a dimly lit room.
Books were strewn across the floor, charts and diagrams lined the walls, and a hunched figure sat in the corner, his face lit by the harsh glow of a desk lamp.
It was a young man, lost in thought, brows furrowed in deep concentration.
I could see his frustration, a palpable aura of disappointment and dissatisfaction that hung over him like a dark cloud.
His friends and allies came and went, trying to offer words of encouragement, of solace. But he only shook his head, a grim smile etched onto his features.
