Rhythm is a dream within a dream. Like the haunting sound of music as you awaken from a slumber — those final reverberations eloped from the plane of the subconscious to drift free out into the world — some half-remembered echo of the way things could be still hanging in the air as reality comes closing in from all around with slow inevitability. And yet for all of reality's presumed confines, its cold calculations unfolding in methodical and mundane detail, it never quite manages to eclipse the fading memory completely, that sound like some phantom limb tugging at the edges of your mind, as if the most slender crescent hewn from the last shimmering gasps of your dreamscape still somehow managed to endure, lingering in the shadows of perception and waiting to be woven into the fabric of the ordinary world.
And yet... was the world ever so ordinary as it once seemed? With the sounds of a thousand errant dreams coursing through its corridors like some vast network of rivers streaming out into countless channels, distributaries and deltas, their currents interlocking in a hypnotic tango only to spiral off into obscure eddies and deep crystalline pools, the rhythm of the water tells a story all its own. Reality is but the wake of dreams, those ripples on the placid surface touching all that they encounter in their rise and fall and rise and fall and rise and fall and on and on and on. A thousand dreams? A thousand dreams are but a slight taste of the true number, a number approaching somewhere round infinity, and the pulsing sounds of countless dreams cascading down the years upon years, ever since time began.
Reality is a dream within a dream...
...when you dream in rhythm.