I woke up from a dream which urged me to take a pen and write. To narrate the tales of before into something happening now. Tales masked by time as I grew up. Time which I forgot existed cause I never really took it into consideration just lived. I existed most of the time, the dream went. The was music playing in the background, some sort of harp. It played behind a door in which I never saw the player, but it felt like I knew him. Knew his hands because they were gentle and that urged me to write. Knew his voice because the melody was familiar. Knew his face because his silhouette showed the shape of his head, I knew. The dream went on, continuously playing to the rhythm of my heartbeat, playing my heartbreak. In that moment, I was eager and scared to see the man that played my heart. But as I came right across the chair he sat on in that room, I woke up. But somehow, in some way I knew it was him.