Dreams, like swirls of watercolour paint or the liquid of melted jewels poured into the surface of crystal-clear water from some sparkling silver cauldron. One touch, just with the tip of a finger, sends it into ripples, swirls, a whirlpool of wondrously distorted, rainbow reflections. Staring into the water of jewel-paint liquid, it slides in and out of focus, sometimes sharply defined, other times it's softly blurred, like clouds in an evening sky.
Then raindrops, little crystal raindrops, start to fall into the pond of reflections. The raindrops become arrows from hell, splashing the colours out of the water. It all parts like a cloud of smoke and I am left lying there, eyes wide open, back to harsh, clinical reality.