Not pastel wonderlands full of mythical creatures, or nightmare dungeons full of my deepest darkest demons. Grey places with no real direction or meaning, flipping past like the leaves of a discarded copy of the Yellow Pages lying in a railway siding. Flat landscapes composed of high hedges on either side of silent country roads, long-crashed cars with the headlights punched out, a low distant unexplained roaring, ominous but strangely comforting. My dreams are s l o w . They form parts of my sub-conscious I never bother to explore during my waking hours; as I believe I’ve stated before, my dreams are not this weird. Life is stranger. But dreams are moreish. Ever wake up from Chapter One and try and relax fast enough to catch Chapter Two?