A sequence of events occurred, ending with standing under an overcast sky on a dark city street, talking to a person wearing a pink t-shirt.
After walking through a doorway, I entered the same apartment. Ward is sitting in a slightly different place. We have a conversation about my day, when I notice I only have a backpack instead of shopping bags.
I realize after seven variations of the same scene are played out that every time I walk out that door, I walk into a different version of my life. Slightly different, but close enough to cause doubt about my memories.
For the first time, I look out the window. Outside is the blue fog.
More of the dream exists, but only as feelings and disjointed images that defy transcription.
This fog has reappeared in a few dreams that I can remember, and seems to exists only in my most brain warping mind-adventures.
The fog seems to represent both the distortion of time and memory, while signifying the unseen limit of my inner dreamworld. Every time I've consciously decided in-dream to cross it, I wake up.
