"What do you suppose happens during the unremembered portions of dreams?" an unidentified voice asks - hesitantly, slightly waveringly - from somewhere in a small, dimly lit psychiatrist's office. A ray of sunlight filters in from between the curtains, through the dust hanging in the air, and finds its way to a cluttered desk.
We look around the room and see all the typical trappings of a middle-aged doctor; a wall of bookshelves, crammed full, certificates on the wall, a pipe resting on the desk - a curl of smoke reaching out and up. There's a definite air of ordered disorder in the room.
"Well, I suppose anything or nothing at all could be happening." An English accent, a wizened voice comes from beneath the grey handlebar moustache of Dr Carl Steven Irish Sinclair - just Irish to his friends. We see him now, encased in a white linen suit, lounging behind his great, ebony-topped desk - his elbows resting on the arms of an immense leather padded chair, his fingertips pressed into a steeple before him.
Twitch of the moustache. "So, tell me, have your, erm, dreams improved since our last rendezvous."
Beat.
"Dreams," the tired, anonymous voice floats into the air joining the dust particles in hovering around the small room, "always running - running - chasing someone - something?" Fragments of speech broken from a thought not quite understood.
A sigh.
Dr Sinclair stirs in his seat. "And these dreams, they’re still troubling you?"
Dead silence. We can almost hear particles of dust floating, bumping into one another as they dance, spiralling through the air.
"I - I hate sleeping."
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