There is a city of shifting skyscrapers that exists only in my dreams, parts of which I have glimpsed once and others I return to again and again. There is a town with a bazaar on a stone bridge spanning a great chasm that I only see when I am sleeping. There is a village on a beach with a street of black brick flats that stretch along the cliffs like a tendril. Sometimes real cities blur into fake ones. There is an escalator somewhere in Birmingham that takes you three stories beneath the earth to a market that sells second hand clothes and Penguin paperbacks. There is a street between Rochdale and Bury that doesn’t link to any other and winds up a hill to a town of a pub and six tiny bookshops. There is a library somewhere the size of a palace surrounded by symmetrical gardens. There is an underground city dug a century ago. There is a flower market hidden under a railway bridge in a place where the sky is always blue-black.
And only I have seen them. And only I remember them. And they are as fleeting as the whispering of the wind.