Dream's overture
Picture this: a tall, well dressed man, white shirt, red tie, dark gray suit following his slim figure. He holds (and looks at) a pocket watch in his left hand, a book in his right. He opens the book, and only by a soft "cling" you realize that the book is chained to his wrist. He has this musky smell about him, a sweet smell, not unlike the book he opened. He starts reading but his voice is not a symphony of sounds and syllables but a mere whisper of a lullaby, long forgotten, sung by mothers long dead. He is a slave of the book, a simple executioner. The lullaby, starts scratching inside your brain, like a curse written on a rusty parchment. The whisper gets stronger and turns into a noise so brisk, like a bag of broken glass trying to get out. The man keeps on reading, and the book, just like any other god, demands sacrifice. You would do anything to stop the whisper. You would do anything to stop the itch. - "Are you ready?", asks the man. - "Yes. Yes I am....