What is in a dream? Nothing! At whiles, painted devils, and sometimes sculpted angels. Nor can the devil bite, nor the angel rescue, for both are nought but a figment of the imagination. A tormented mind paints hellish dreams, and a heart at respite shows heaven. Sleep indeed is death’s cousin, for when we fold, we know not if our lids will swing ajar or be perpetually shut for eternity. Neither the former nor the latter are real. Sleep soothes a fevered mind, but burning minds seldom find respite. We don’t die. This is a circus, a comic show for just for obtuse minds to entertain. Man is nought but a plaything of the gods. He worries, and swears, and lives and dies, and the gods, having wagered, pee their pants in sheer delight. What is in a dream? Nothing. They that fulfil their dreams relish it not in the grave. Everything is dark and awfully silent. Neither sound nor taste is the company of them that sleep, and all they’ve done is quickly forgot. They leave a legacy, then what? They that in slothful recess accomplish nothing, and they who might and day toil at their dreams are made equal by death. While the one is forgot by the living, the other is remembered. But neither can feel the pangs of inadequacy, or as the latter would follow, the delight of achievement. It’s simple really. Neither soothing dreams nor nightmares should move you; for there really is nothing in a dream!

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