Last night he slept

Last night he slept and he dreamt of trees. Of streetlamps and sidewalk cracks and the little weeds that grew in between. Of wooden cars and pink wheels and dusty bricks that grew eyes, then more eyes. He swam through oceans and space, a fitful sleep in which every turn was a thousand miles and every flip plunged him into new worlds, through glass and silk and mazes with never-ending subways. When the cool air hit him, he was standing on a cliff in the fall, then winter, and his sweat drops evaporated while his skin cells waved goodbye. The fan buzzed, and he heard the synchronized humming of reliable machines, beeping and lights. Silver equipment that fell away to sand, and dirt, and stones. Ceramic tiles. He fell in love with birds, huge birds that shaded the ground with their wings. Ice cream. A pretty girl who hid her face and blended into the ocean. A buzz, some ugly sounds. He heard what he thought were footsteps, stomping, thumping, bombs. Ah, construction. There is construction outside. An alarm. He left as quickly as he went through his worlds, his dream but a sliver of water vanishing down an impossibly large funnel, until nothing was left but some steam, some smells. Ah, the wall. There are the bumps on the white wall, the tack-sized hole that had always been there. The window, the trees outside, the sun. This morning he woke up, got dressed, and left.