That night he dreamt again. The past swirled around his legs, dragging him backwards through a gauntlet of faces and voices. In the hot night he twisted and turned in the rough sheets, calling out to the smoky folk of his dream world.

This ratcheting back in time was taking its toll on the frail traveler who had to deal with more realities than just one. What about his brother and the tragic circumstances that led to this moment? Why could he hear the tinkling of piano music and smell the cloying aroma of pipe tobacco and camphor?

And even further back, like a mirage, was the spectre of a gloomy inn sunk into black cliffs, half obscured by sea spray and devious minds. This nightmare propelled him through layers of Hell into the arms of a ferocious storm and a city that rained light. Once before he had escaped an asylum and driven across the desert to an ambiguous destiny.

Nothing was solid anymore. The ambitions of his youth had given way to inglorious survival in the ramshackle rooms of his remaining years. Could anything break this forlorn cycle of predictability? He longed to wake up and breathe.