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It was for English class, short story. I was happy with it, and everyone seemed to like it, so 'ere we go. I've always been troubled by dreams. Not the usual bowel loosening nightmares, nor the creepy, almost movie-like suspenses. My dreams are much worse. Much more real. I doubt that everyone who had them would agree, but they're my dreams, and that's what I'm saying. They began when I was 13. At the time I didn't know them for what they were. I could never remember them, but every morning, waking up would be accompanied by a sense of loss so profound it hurt me. Things changed from there. Those dreams faded away to the normal fantasies of an overactive 13 year old. Girls and sports, mostly. It accelerated slowly from there. At 15 and 16 I could remember them, which made my social life awkward and somewhat pathetic. For hours I'd lay in bed and fight sleep. By the age of 19 I was dreaming them every night. They're probably the cause of my insomnia. I'd often try and puzzle out what it was that caused these dreams of mine. Whether it was a childhood incident, long since repressed in the halls of my subconcious, or if I angered some spiteful diety. For a year it became an obsession. I saw hypnotists who specialized in repressed memories, and I researched Gods who operated in dreams. Then I had an epiphany. No God could touch me, I was out of their domain, for our faith is their power, and I have none. Any buried childhood memories mattered not, for it was my problem to deal with. The cause was immaterial. The dreams, my friend. All the horror and pain of 9/11 hidden behind a disguise as beautiful as Jessica Alba. There's nothing like them. Nothing like the perfect life in them. Everything is perfect. I'm perfect. The perfect house, the perfect job, the perfect life, the perfect girl. And there is where the trouble lies. The perfect girl, a thought long pondered, from adolescents too young to spend a night away from their parents, to men so old their grandchildren have children. Well I've found her, or my version of her. She lies in my dreams. There's no use describing her to you, my tongue is a crude tool I fear. However, the dreams bring with them a sweetness. A sweetness so great it is soul-searing agony in itself. That is my fgear, my only wish is for them to stop. Letting his surprise visitor out, John wondered why he told him the truth about the dreams. Was it madness? He pondered. He felt tired, sleep was coming. Had to escape sleep. John stumbled to his medicine cabinet, to find it empty. Had to escape sleep. He looked desperately around for a pill to keep him awake. Had to escape sleep. He spotted his open window. Had to escape sleep. That was his only thought as his body flew out of the balcony of his apartment and into the traffic below. Had to escape sleep.