Too much Sandman tampers with your head
'
But how can it be' said the young man, looking nervously around. 'That there is only one writer in the whole world who seems to possess all the good ideas? And, you know, it's like that, sometimes, you dream about something really hard, you hone this idea to perfection, and just when you are about to put the pen to paper, you accidentally stumble upon your creation in his book. Or graphic novel. It is yours, you know it is, you have never told anyone about it and you are pretty damn sure you haven't read it nowhere, but here it is. In his work!. How can it even be possible?'
His companion put a small piece of fish on her fork and lifted it to her mouth. She bit a morsel, chewed on it, and then shrugged.
'Oh, I thought you had it figured out for quite a time now, hon', she said. 'It's so simple. He really is Morpheus. So he knows all dreams of the humankind, even before they swim to the surface of counsciousness. He has this big web, like a gigantic dreamcatcher, set over the collective uncounsciousness - Hell, I'm repeating myself, used counsciousness twice, thrice including this one - and all the dreams are filtered through it. The good ideas stay in the fringes and trickle down straight to his mind. All he needs then is to, as you nicely said, put the pen to paper and write them down. And sell them'. She licked her fingers, thoughtful. 'I must say that I admire the son of a bitch. Besides, if you recognise your ideas in his musing, you should feel flattered. After all, they are yours, not his. He is just a medium. A giant receiver.'
'Yeah, right'. The man didn't look convinced. 'You wouldn't be so smug about it if you found your own idea there!'
The woman looked at him. Her mouth twisted a bit, as if she didn't know whether to smile or snarl.
'Trust me, darling' she said. 'After the thousandth one you just stops caring'.
'How can you know?'
Her eyes glintered in the dark, almost like little stars.
'Trust me, hon. I know'.
But how can it be' said the young man, looking nervously around. 'That there is only one writer in the whole world who seems to possess all the good ideas? And, you know, it's like that, sometimes, you dream about something really hard, you hone this idea to perfection, and just when you are about to put the pen to paper, you accidentally stumble upon your creation in his book. Or graphic novel. It is yours, you know it is, you have never told anyone about it and you are pretty damn sure you haven't read it nowhere, but here it is. In his work!. How can it even be possible?'
His companion put a small piece of fish on her fork and lifted it to her mouth. She bit a morsel, chewed on it, and then shrugged.
'Oh, I thought you had it figured out for quite a time now, hon', she said. 'It's so simple. He really is Morpheus. So he knows all dreams of the humankind, even before they swim to the surface of counsciousness. He has this big web, like a gigantic dreamcatcher, set over the collective uncounsciousness - Hell, I'm repeating myself, used counsciousness twice, thrice including this one - and all the dreams are filtered through it. The good ideas stay in the fringes and trickle down straight to his mind. All he needs then is to, as you nicely said, put the pen to paper and write them down. And sell them'. She licked her fingers, thoughtful. 'I must say that I admire the son of a bitch. Besides, if you recognise your ideas in his musing, you should feel flattered. After all, they are yours, not his. He is just a medium. A giant receiver.'
'Yeah, right'. The man didn't look convinced. 'You wouldn't be so smug about it if you found your own idea there!'
The woman looked at him. Her mouth twisted a bit, as if she didn't know whether to smile or snarl.
'Trust me, darling' she said. 'After the thousandth one you just stops caring'.
'How can you know?'
Her eyes glintered in the dark, almost like little stars.
'Trust me, hon. I know'.
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