A city, familiar but unlike any he could recall having seen, stood empty and still, like pillars of solid rock. The thick, gray fog engulfed the buildings and slowly ate away at them, as though their creators had made them from clay. A vapor atmosphere surrounded him, but he could not feel it. Something else constricted his body - a force, applying pressure to his muscles, but even his muscles felt different. The sickly green sky shadowed the land, masking it from all sunlight. He heard something - also familiar, and he turned. Far from the city, an object had caught his attention. Again, the familiar sound, a familiar impulse, and then darkness.
When he opened his eyes, he checked his clock. He still had two hours before he had to leave for school. Knowing he couldn't fall asleep again, he sat up and tossed the covers off of him. Rubbing his eyes, he reluctantly rose up and walked to his computer. Just before sitting down, he reached up and turned on his room's air-conditioner. The chair nearly fell backward as he dropped into it. He caught himself, frowning. "Just what I needed to wake myself up."
Turning on his laptop, he sat in wait for everything to load. He rubbed his forehead, attempting to recall the dream, but he could only remember vague pieces of it. The dreams had haunted him for years. They began as ghosts, nothing but feelings remaining after he would wake. As time went by, and the dreams became more frequent, the images slowly began to impose themselves on his memory. Always familiar, they seemed like memories, but he could think of nothing that resembled what the dreams had shown him. At least once a week, they stole the night from him, waking him and leaving him unable to fall back asleep. The remaining feelings, he could not well describe, but they overwhelmed him. Occasionally, they had come just before sleep, as he lied in bed, and he would attempt to analyze them as he felt them. It felt to him like he had angered someone as a result of failing to do something. Time seemed to actually move faster. Then, just as quickly as they had come, they would flee when he opened his eyes.
Typing what he could remember, he saved the file with the others. He began recording them over two years before. He hoped to remember something that would explain them or to find some kind of connection between them and real life. So far, he had neither remembered or found anything, but he took some solace in knowing that he tried. He would not give up on explaining them. Despite the help he might receive from a councilor or psychiatrist, however, he told no one of the dreams or feelings. Though he did not feel that he had a disorder, he feared the notion that the dreams meant nothing and would disappear with a simple prescription. They seemed important to him, like a secret he had to keep, and he would not reveal them to even his closest friend.