French Toast

As he walked through the museums of his dreams, he wondered if artists really were a thing. It was becoming clearer that there were no such thing, only some pretty chorus of people screaming their lungs out.

He got the habit of drawing a single image of his dreams every time he would wake up. Sometimes, the drawings were simple, a single object, sometimes they were weird or meaningless. Sometimes, they just were a mix of black, tears and blood

Every so often, she would start crying in the middle of the night because of nightmares. And when she had dreams, she would cry in the morning when she would came back to reality