Introduction

This shall be somewhat screwy, for I have but just awakened, yet I wish to set it to parchment ere it slips from memory.

I have just dreamt a most peculiar dream, and I desire to record it. They say that writing one’s dreams aids in remembering them, and thusly that is what I shall do.

Part One: The Button Board and the Friend

I believe this was not truly the beginning, though whatever came before has already escaped me. Therefore, this shall serve as the beginning of my account.

I found myself seated upon my couch, though there was one slight problem: I was not merely sitting upon my couch. I was seated atop an enormous board of buttons. Somehow I knew these buttons could be mapped to a set of controls, though what they controlled, I could not say.

Beside me sat my friend Thawny. They teased me for being unable to use the board, claiming I kept making a mess of it. I believe I attempted to understand its workings, only to somehow cause the entire thing to begin scrolling. Not as though it were a screen, mind you—the buttons themselves literally scrolled endlessly beneath my handpaws in an infinite loop. Thawny laughed and remarked something to the effect of,

“Yeah, it took me forever to figure out those controls too.”

Thereafter the dream began to blur, as though it had already decided to wander elsewhere. I do, however, faintly recall speaking with Thawny about the pressure-sensitive pads along the top of the board, and how remarkably clever they seemed.

Part Two: The Pool and the Wrong Clothes

At this point the scene changed. I found myself within a room much like the one before. The first had been cloaked in darkness, so I cannot rightly say whether they were one and the same. It resembled my own living room—a modest, open space with a coffee table at its heart and a handful of chairs gathered around it.

This version, however, possessed several curious differences. It was considerably larger, and by whatever inexplicable dream logic governed the place, it connected directly to a hotel in which my family and I were staying—everyone save, for some reason, my sister. At the back of the room stood an elevator, and beyond a hallway leading to various hotel rooms, it seemed to be the only means of exit.

I was now carrying the button board, which had apparently decided it could change size at will, slung over my shoulder by means of some bizarre tripod contraption. As I gathered my belongings for a trip to the pool, I spoke with my parents, though what we discussed has long since escaped me. Neither can I explain why I insisted upon bringing the button board with me.

At some point I found myself already dressed in a swimsuit, though I have no memory of changing into it. I took up a towel and stepped into the largest elevator I have ever seen—larger even than those found in industrial buildings. I descended to the fourth floor, for that was where the pool resided within this peculiar dream hotel.

Upon arriving, I somehow realized that I also required my ordinary clothes, though for what purpose I cannot imagine. Thus I prepared to return upstairs.

It is here that the dream truly abandoned any pretense of reason.

A fellow appeared and wished me good luck in an exceedingly strange voice, one that shifted rapidly between masculine and feminine tones. He then closed one of the elevator doors, for naturally this elevator possessed not one set of doors, but four.

I spent a moment fumbling with the controls upon the wall, which were now arranged in a circular pattern. The buttons marked four and eight each held little pools of water, somehow suspended perfectly upon their surfaces. I believe I selected eight, though I cannot honestly say with certainty.

Thereafter I seized the button board in frustration, and quite suddenly the voice of the YouTuber Stampy—whom I used to watch years ago—began sternly scolding the board as though it were a living thing that had somehow endangered another’s life.

I did warn thee that this dream became strange.

At last I emerged from the elevator and returned to my parents, explaining that I had forgotten several important things. For reasons known only unto dream logic, my mother seemed convinced that giving me her shirt would solve the matter. I endeavored to explain that I needed my own clothes, but she insisted that my brother had remained in the shower within our room for three hours and could not hear anyone pounding upon the door. Since they could not retrieve my belongings, there was apparently nothing to be done.

I was just about to go and knock upon the door myself—for I had no wish to wear another’s clothes—when the dream finally unraveled, and I awoke.

And thus I find myself here, setting this strange nonsense to writing before it, too, slips away.