Some nights, I slip into dreams and realize I'm suddenly lucid. In those moments, I see him—myself—painstakingly building a strange apparatus, carefully fitting each piece in place. He roams from one realm to another, adjusting and perfecting his creation.
Other nights, he lingers with family. I catch glimpses of my father, gone these ten years, as I wander the familiar halls of my childhood. The echoes of loved ones, both living and departed, crowd those dreamscapes.
And through it all, there's a constant sense of danger—a looming presence he keeps at bay, always watchful, as though an unseen adversary waits just beyond sight.
Yet mostly, what shines through is his wish to help, to offer a bit of playful amusement and kindle some happiness. I suspect that astral machine he's so devoted to may one day spark great joy. Still, I can't help wondering: what, exactly, is he building up there?
Other nights, he lingers with family. I catch glimpses of my father, gone these ten years, as I wander the familiar halls of my childhood. The echoes of loved ones, both living and departed, crowd those dreamscapes.
And through it all, there's a constant sense of danger—a looming presence he keeps at bay, always watchful, as though an unseen adversary waits just beyond sight.
Yet mostly, what shines through is his wish to help, to offer a bit of playful amusement and kindle some happiness. I suspect that astral machine he's so devoted to may one day spark great joy. Still, I can't help wondering: what, exactly, is he building up there?