I was in my house. It was one of those situations where you've never been in the building before, but you intrinsically know that it's your home. I was all alone, wandering the empty halls and rooms looking for something. In the nursery, I found a chest. In the chest were old yearbooks, photographs, and the thing I had been looking for: A beat-up notebook.
I began flipping through the notebook. It was filled with old and abandoned ideas. There were story outlines, character descriptions, and questions that had once meant something to me but now I couldn't remember what they were connected to. Exploring the notebook filled me with an intense melancholy. There was so much unfulfilled potential.
Then, as if alive, the pages began pulling away from me. They ripped themselves out of the book. They began flying around the room. As they flew, they filled the room. It was an avalanche of ink-filled paper. I tried to crawl to the door, but the ideas couldn't sustain my weight. I began to sink. I tried to swim, but to no avail.
I woke up, sweaty and clammy. My fever was broken and a deep, disturbing chill was clinging to my chest.
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