He sat on his bed cross-legged. The window beside his bed was closed for the winter but a chilling breeze seeped through and made his flesh tingle. His hands were cupped over his mouth tightly and his chin was un-kept and bristly. It irritated the palms of his hands. His blankets were strewn over the floor in mountains with velvety peaks. He began to be more aware of how the soft draught froze the sweat that stained his plain white t-shirt. The motive for his pores to pain him was the dream. The dream that was not a ghost wandering the chambers of his psyche like most.
In the dream he sat there in a plain white sofa. It was leather and warm. He looked around even though he somehow knew his surroundings. It was a dark violet room. The room was the size of a gymnasium. It had seamless corners and a solid shade. This room made him sick. He had been so busy observing the room around him he had failed to notice what was right before his eyes. There was a bucket. It was the same shade as the room. If it wasn’t for the shadows it would have become the room. He knew this. The room would have soaked it up. But that isn’t of any importance. What is important is what happened next. As if gravity was unnerved by the room itself, the pail tipped over. White sand spilled out in front of him. It was like the silky sand you found on the shores of some tropical paradise. His bones felt as if they we’re shattering but he kept his composure. The sand was moving of its own will. He could heard the grains scratching against each other. It was forming a structure and it was piling up on its own, right before his eyes. He was fearful but he felt secure. It was forming the shape of a mans body that stood before him. The grains were still stirring to mould every feature in the mans shape. This continued for about twenty seconds. They stopped moving. The man made of was about six feet tall. He had oddly perfect facial characteristics. He was thin. He had long hair that hung slightly below his mid back. Most importantly this man was purely white. His hair, the colour of his eyes, his skin, was all white. White like an early snowfall. The shadows on him we’re a delicate grey that he had never seen before. He was now showing signs of his terror. He gripped the white leather chair that was now like ice beneath him. The man whispered a grainy sentence. The man waited. He mumbled. He waited. Now he spoke loud and clear. The man said Don’t stray from the pasture. It is your place. Your domicile. As soon as the man finished uttering these words he warped into a single grain of sand it rested in the air. He stared for a moment.
He sat on his bed cross-legged.
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