Rooms

"The colder the room, the more likely you'll have a bad dream." Lourdes sat up and shivered a convulsion of dawn chill, her arms seemingly dead, her blood still. Where did she read that quote? The foggy thoughts took time lifting, she couldn't recall where, it's a silly quote anyway. Lourdes has no dreams, as was her personal habit, instead pure imageless sleep. Or, so she has chosen to believe. Yet the vast and complex cosmos of the brain has its own order, its own programs to run. In fact, it's always dreaming every hour awake or not, as every dream is a forgettable room, how many we roam straight thru yet never remember in some utterly unaware slumber. The cold fact is we're not in control of anything awake or not, but something is directing this old universe to expand away from itself as it does, and with ever increasing haste, how can it be, this notion of forever, endlessly? Lourdes likes it just fine so cold, doesn't think about questions unasked, who does, beyond insomniacs? There's strong coffee to make, a whole day of moments to grind, brand new rooms to enter and later forget. Thru dream and such, the daily brain cleans its crystal house via random review, all business. The rest is dim rumor, guessing at science, and romantic whim.