They weren't actually dreams. They were memories -- or realistic hallucinations -- ghosts of the past that wandered the present. They were everywhere, layer upon layer of illusory figures performing daily actions. No, they were not dreams. I called them dreams because he walked among them. Dreams were imaginings of the mind, but they were also miraculous, wondrous, and generally enjoyable. Sometimes I derived pleasure from the straggling memories that haunted the streets of Manhattan, but him, he was different from them. He was intriguing and alluring all on his own. He was careful and wary and lonely. He possessed a certain ethereal persona of mingled chaos and contradiction that altered his behavior with every movement he made. He was ever-shifting and yet always stable, like how his physical form constantly changed and yet his aura always remained the same. Although he was not aware of me, I had known him all of my life. When I was three, I had watched him steal a cinnamon roll for a homeless man. When I was five, he glided through the walls of my elementary school. When I was eleven, I saw him sitting in the public library, combing through a heavy tome about Norse mythology. And today I had watched as he walked casually through Koreatown, unseen by all eyes but mine own. LEGENDARY EDITION (unedited, written when i was a kid lmao)
13 parts