I am now awake, and I find myself in someone else’s dream. It’s far more horrible, and there is nothing beautiful in it, and it’s not a dream. But people are ignoring it like it doesn’t have relevance to them. (11/11)

Waking from the dream has me reeling with the sense of loss of her, the grief he feels, and his will to bring back at least the beauty he saw when he looked at her. Oh, and relief that I am not him. Though, am I? (10/11)

You might be asking yourself, “Why did you tell me about your dream”. I’ll admit it likely is just my conscious mind trying to make sense the stream of data my unconscious mind is filtering through. It only has relevance to me, if even that. (9/11)

He couldn’t paint her either. He painted the city. He’s in there amongst the buildings. There, that building, is the shoulder of his pink shirt. I know it, because it’s right there on the label.
(8/11)

I guess it must be morning. The buildings have a golden and pink shade to them, as do the clouds over them.

I know what happened. He was driving. He held her hand when she said, “Tell them the weather was lovely”. He couldn’t. (7/11)

There are other buildings in the town, or maybe city. They are bigger than the church, not to dominate really, just bigger. Maybe its Springfield, or Fitchburg, or Worcester. They were on their way.
Was it dusk? Was it dawn? So hard to tell. The church face should face East right? (6/11)

There is the white church, with its tall white steeple, just in the foreground.

It’s the color that I can’t get over. The light. Oh, I wish I was more of an art lover so that I had even the words to describe it. “Tell them the weather was lovely”, she said. (5/11)

The painting is of a New England town. It’s a bit impressionistic. Maybe John Singer Seargent? Did he do landscapes? Anyway, there are broadish brush strokes. What do I know?

I know it’s a New England town, like I know that she had blonde hair. That she _had_ blonde hair. (4/11)

It's not just an image, it's a picture. No, it's in a frame, and, I see, it’s a painting. It's hanging in a museum. I know this because I look to the side, and I see its label. The voice I heard a moment ago, written out in black text, “Jimmy don't yell at me.” (3/11)

It was like dreams always are, everything all at once. An image, voices, a feeling of loss, arrive together in my head with seemingly no connection. My mind is making sense of it as I slowly wake from this sublime and terrible nightmare.

“Jimmy don't yell at me!”, she said. (2/11)

Adorbs… I think I’m in love.

youtu.be/Rqnw5IfbZOU?...