Where is it that we go, Johnny, when we dream? In our waking hours, reluctantly we walk through the depths of the fog, not noticing the gravel underneath our feet. The ground is uneven. We are unsteady. Reluctantly, we talk to the shadows, unaware of who walks with us. We notice only the noise, ignoring the beckoning silence as it cuts through the fog, echoing our own names back to us. When we dream though, Johnny, the spaces between our fingers come to life. With each movement our molecules vibrate, dancing with one another, dissipating the fog. Seamlessly, they melt. We hold an awareness of the waves that the colors arrive on, shining more vibrantly than they once had. Those who are seemingly far come closer. We stop, for what feels like the first time, and listen to the silence. It calls us in, caressing our names carefully on its lips before breathing them out. We follow each breath until it is our own. Fear no longer exists as the walls around us shatter and reality does too. Are they not the same place though, Johnny? Is our world not molded by our perception of it? Is our perception not dulled by the fog? You don't remember me yet, Johnny, but I need you to trust me. I need you to listen through the fog, and in the silence, the voice that you hear is mine and it is also yours. I need you to follow that voice, looking through the fog. The synchronicities were left by me and also by you. This breadcrumb trail will lead you back to me and also back to you, but are we not the same?