They call it hypnopompia. No, it's not a sedative for uptight aristocrats, though I'll try one if you have any – it refers to the state upon awakening in which dreamlike imagery persists. That disoriented state just before you clutch your chest and console yourself with the mantra of “It's okay. It was just a dream.” I just awoke in that fashion and I'm still peeling the remnants away like cobwebs. My recollection hasn't quite slipped away just yet, so let me try to explain.

It was white, just static. Quite like this page, in fact. There was a city that I found myself in, composed of words, which I endeavoured to explore both on foot and as a reader; so I transversed the secrets of the highways, alternating from a disembodied pair of eyes to a sleuthing, grey-scale detective. There was a sense of nostalgia from a potent smell or two, and a single piece paper kept running away with the wind through the streets of script. I was chasing it with all my might.

As is usually the case in these convincing reveries, I knew more than I was supposed to. This message was intended for me – this I was as sure of as my own heartbeat. I kept getting glimpses of the words out of body as a passing insect, and every time I read it I was transported to the location of writer: a girl who had met a horrible end, or was perhaps predestined to by the wishes of her sexually frustrated, diabolic author. Her fate was suspended in the air; sometimes doomed, sometimes rescued, and yet other times she managed to be neither. Fictitious. I could only glimpse, and was always returned to my increasingly limited body, sprinting pathetically through a world of paper.

My new identity was that of a private eye, surrounded by all the information that I had to sift through. I fully intended to read every last word. I had every clue I needed to get to my destination, to save this lovely lady, but the sheer wealth of information was such that I was having trouble knowing where to start. As is a common theme in my dreams, I'd reach some sort of triumphant conclusion, literally reaching the end of a literary street, only to be flung in to the air far away; a nauseating devolution, forced to start from the journey's beginning again, like some broken lab-rat caught in a pharmaceutical labyrinth. It felt like my ego devouring itself violently, but I found tranquility whenever my perception shifted to visions of her.

I'd like to say that she's okay, but I really don't think so. I saw enough to know that her end had already been written. All I can hope is that it was humane, and that perhaps she is at peace now; for somewhere in the depths of my subconscious, her note is still fluttering around like a lonely butterfly. I guess that means a part of her persists. Maybe some day I'll remember her last words, but for now, I will try to do her beauty justice with remembrance.

Rest deeply, my dearest ghost. You can haunt me any time.